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DEC  31 1935 


«s 


ATHANASION 


SECOND    EDITION, 


WITH    NOTES    AND    CORRECTIONS. 


ALSO, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


AUTHOR  OF  "CHRISTIAN  BALLADS,"  &c. 


Avtt 


,o*£* 


NEW- YORK  : 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM. 


MDCCCXLII. 


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WILEY    AND    PUTNAM, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


J.  P.  Wright,  Printer, 
18  New  street,  New-York. 


TO 
THE  REV'D   A.   JACKSON,  M.  A. 

PROFESSOR  OF  INT.  AND  MOR.  PHILOSOPHY  IN  WASHINGTON  COLLEGE. 

My  Dear  Professor, 

An  ode  written  for  the  Associate  Alumni  of  Washington  Col- 
lege, and  pronounced  before  them  at  their  annual  commemoration, 
could  not,  without  manifest  impropriety,  be  dedicated  to  any  other  than 
yourself,  as  their  presiding  head.  But,  it  is  with  other  considerations 
that  I  have  chosen  to  give  Athanasion  any  inscription  at  all.  The 
friendship  with  which  you  have  honored  me,  and  the  hours  which  I 
was  privileged  to  pass  in  your  company,  in  the  intervals  of  Commence- 
ment-week at  Hartford,  are  my  motive  and  apology,  for  thus  troubling 
your  patience  and  your  name. 

I  trust  you  will  accept  the  dedication  as  it  is  given — in  record  of 
one  of  the  happiest  weeks  I  have  known :  a  week  which  I  shall  long 
remember,  and  in  which  I  cannot  but  think  I  have  made  some  ac- 
quaintances whom  I  may  call  friends  through  life. 

With  sincere  regard,  Reverend  and  Dear  Sir, 

Your  affectionate, 

C. 

Chelsea,  August,  1840. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Athanasion 13 

Notes  53 

Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Watchwords 83 

Let  out  thy  Soul 86 

The  Soul  Dirge 90 

Iscariot  Chapel 94 

The  Heart's  Song 96 

New-Year's  Day 98 

Lament  101 

Talleyrand 105 

God  opes  the  Way  :  a  Hymn  for  the  Times 110 

Sonnets  115 

To  John  Jay,  Esq 116 

Sonnet  inscribed  on  an  iEolus'  Harp 118 

To  Daniel  Huntingdon,  on  his  embarking  for  Italy  ...119 

To  Edward  Henry  Hyde 123 

ToC.Verbryck 121 

To  J.  H.  H ib. 

To  J.  I.  T.,  Esq.,  on  his  return  from  Travel 122 

To  John  Finley  Smith,  M.  A 123 

ToS.H.  C 124 

To  a  Friend ib. 

To  J.  J 125 

Theophany,  or  the  Vision  of  Habbakuk 127 

The  Hebrew  Muse:  an  Ode 133 

The  Progress  of  Ambition 139 

The  Blues 149 

Elegy:  written  on  leaving  the  University 161 

To  a  Lady 174 

A 


ATMIMASQ©! 


PRE  FA  C  E 


Athanasion  was  written  in  the  Spring  of  1840. 
After  the  greater  part  was  in  manuscript,  I  acceded  to 
an  invitation  from  the  Alumni  of  Washington  College, 
to  pronounce  a  Poem  before  them  at  their  annual  com- 
memoration in  the  coming  August.  It  was  accord- 
ingly produced  on  that  occasion  in  Christ  Church, 
at  Hartford.  At  the  further  instance  of  the  Alumni, 
it  was  afterwards  published  with  several  Notes,  and 
has  since  experienced  some  variety  of  fortune  in  the 
criticisms  it  has  attracted.  While  it  remains,  I  sup- 
pose, still  unknown  to  the  public  at  large,  it  has  not 
been  unsuccessful  in  obtaining  the  notice  of  those  for 
whom  it  was  written ;  and  while,  in  some  instances, 
I  have  been  sorry  to  see  its  principles  misstated,  and 
evidently  misunderstood,  I  have  to  acknowledge,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  cordiality  of  approval  from  others, 
which  I  had  scarcely  anticipated  from  any.  In  jus- 
tice to  the  association  at  whose  request  it  was  first 
printed,  however,  I  desire  to  corroborate  here  the  inti- 
mation of  an  anonymous  contributor  to  an  Eastern 


VI  PREFACE. 

journal,  that  the  association  which  requested  it.  for 
the  press,  has  no  responsibility  for  the  Notes,  since  they 
were  not  delivered  with  the  Poem.  I  desire  to  add, 
that  I  never  dreamed  of  sharing  any  responsibility 
whatever,  either  for  Poem  or  Notes,  with  my  valued 
friends  who  published  the  first  edition.  I  considered 
their  kind  action  in  the  matter  as  only  a  courteous 
expression  of  a  willingness,  on  their  part,  to  read  at 
leisure  what  they  had  heard  very  hurriedly  uttered. 
Had  I  but  suspected  otherwise,  I  should  have  declined 
a  civility  offered  with  such  obvious  disadvantage  to 
themselves.  While  I  regret,  therefore,  that  such  an 
implication  should  have  been  hinted  so  gratuitously — 
I  trust  so  thoughtlessly — I  suffer  it  to  give  me  no 
more  concern,  especially  as  it  called  forth  a  generous 
rejoinder  in  the  same  journal,  and  many  amiable  pri- 
vate assurances,  that  I  have  not  been  so  unfortunate 
as  to  differ  much  from  my  Hartford  friends,  even  in 
my  most  obnoxious  annotation. 

At  all  events,  I  am  thankful  for  an  opportunity  of 
sending  out  a  new  and  corrected  edition  of  the  whole. 
I  received,  last  Fall,  the  intelligence  that  such  an  edi- 
tion was  in  demand.  It  is  the  first  of  my  writings  to 
which  such  an  honour  has  been  extended  ;  the  last  for 
which  I  should  have  predicted  the  good  fortune.  To 
the  former  title-page  I  affixed  the  motto  pwvavra  CuvstokTiv, 


PREFACE.  Vll 

not  with  an  affectation  of  Pindaric  self-satisfaction,  but 
with  reference  to  the  Immortal  themes — the  Athana- 
sia — which  I  had  ventured  to  treat  in  the  abused  and 
degraded  form  of  song.  The  motto  sufficiently  deno- 
ted the  tribunal  at  which  I  desired  to  be  heard,  and 
judged:  but  as  I  have  not  escaped  indictment  and 
conviction  in  courts  where  I  had  scarce  expected  to 
be  examined,  I  have  endeavoured  now,  by  the  aid  of 
fuller  notes,  and  language  less  liable  to  misconstruc- 
tion, to  obtain  from  such,  a  reverse  of  judgment.  My 
unprofessional,  or  Calvinistic,  reader  will  be  doing  me 
only  justice  to  remember,  that  the  Church  is  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  foreign,  or  novel,  meanings  which  the 
various  dissenting  sects  attach  to  ancient  and  settled 
terms  of  Catholic  Theology.  The  want  of  this  fair 
dealing  is  the  occasion  not  only  of  much  false  accusa- 
tion against  her  friends  and  children,  but  also  of  much 
illiberal  prejudice  against  her  venerable  Ritual,  and 
primitive  Liturgy.  A  popular  definition  of  Regenera- 
tion, for  instance,  united  with  a  very  prevalent  idea 
of  the  indefectibility  of  the  once  regenerate,  leads 
many,  when  they  read  a  baptismal  office  eighteen 
hundred  years  old,  with  their  modern  and  provincial 
glossary,  to  assert,  with  full  conviction  of  their  hones- 
ty, that  the  pillar  and  ground  of  the  Truth  is  setting 
forth  the  absurdest  of  lies.     Such  have  been  taught, 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

perhaps,  that  Regeneration  is  an  act  of  the  adult  mind, 
under  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  by  which 
it  becomes  irrevocably  a  child  of  God,  and  so  must  be 
saved.  Such  acts  of  the  mind  as  are  here  referred  to, 
the  Church  has  ever  regarded  as  that  faith  and  re- 
pentance which  are  prerequisites  indeed  to  adoption 
as  a  child  of  God  :  but  the  begetting  from  above  it- 
self, as  its  very  language  implies,  is  defined  by  her,  in 
all  her  standards,  as  an  operation  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
in  which  the  subject  is  passive, — and  by  which,  in  the 
Sacrament  of  Holy  Baptism,  the  redeemed  inhabitants 
of  earth  receive  a  title  to  the  benefits  of  Christ's 
blessed  atonement  and  death.  This  can  only  be  be- 
stowed on  terms  of  repentance  and  faith ;  but  to  those 
who  duly  receive  it,  pardon  and  remission  are  sealed ; 
grace  is  given  ;  in  which,  if  they  continue  to  watch 
and  pray,  they  will  grow,  and  make  their  calling  and 
election  sure.  They  are  "  born  of  water  and  the  Spi- 
rit," and  have  received  the  "  washing  of  regeneration  ;" 
they  are  "  children  of  God  by  faith,"  and  have  "  put  on 
Christ;"  but  they  are  on  a  probation,  in  which  they 
may  fall ;  running  a  race,  in  which  they  may  not 
obtain  the  prize  ;  and  enduring  a  trial,  from  which 
they  may  come  out  cast-away.  They  are  partakers 
of  a  new  nature,  although  "  babes  in  Christ  ;"  they 
are  regenerate,  but  not  saved,  and  must  work  out 


PREFACE.  IX 

their  salvation  with  fear  and  trembling.  Every  evan- 
gelical act  is  thus  included,  and  the  sacrament  of  bap- 
tism itself  regarded  as  deeply  Spiritual, — not  a  bare 
and  valueless  ceremony,  but  a  glorious  investiture 
from  God. 

If  for  making  this  sublime  truth  of  the  ever-blessed 
Gospel  the  very  hypothesis  of  my  Poem,  I  have  been 
a  sufferer  with  the  Church  herself,  I  confess  I  am  not 
ashamed  ;  but  I  add,  that  I  am  deeply  sorry.  To  con- 
vince, and  not  to  enjoy  the  aristocracy  of  being  right, 
must  be  the  burning  desire  and  effort  of  all,  who,  to 
the  fearfully  responsible  name  of  Christian,  wear  the 
almost  synonymous  prefix  of  Catholic.  I  trust,  there- 
fore, that  these  explanations  will  be  received  as  kindly, 
as  they  are  honestly,  and  earnestly  offered. 

To  the  charge  of  presumption  which  has  been  pre- 
ferred against  my  choice  of  divine  philosophy  for  my 
rhymes,  I  can  only  answer,  that  I  am  a  soldier  of 
Christ,  and  as  such,  must  sing,  if  I  sing  at  all,  with 
Tyrtaeus,  and  not  with  Anacreon.  If  there  is  a  period 
in  our  young  life,  when  Poetry,  for  its  own  sake  is  ab- 
sorbingly dear,  and  our  days  are  fervently  devoted  to 
the  worship  of  external  and  imaginative  beauty,  it 
must  be  before  we  have  exhausted  our  arithmetic  in 
estimating  the  worth  of  the  Undying  Soul  within  us, 
and  concluded,  over  the  unfinished  reckoning,  that  the 


X  PREFACE. 

glory  of  the  world,  and  the  Prince  that  offers  it,  are  too 
poor  to  bargain  with  us  for  that.  But  when  the  father- 
ly chastisement  of  our  God  has  scourged  us  from  our 
idolatry,  into  a  sublime  adoration  of  His  own  incon- 
ceivable nature, — into  a  hope,  through  Jesus  Christ, 
of  dwelling  with  Him  in  the  eternal  years  of  high  and 
noble  happiness,  which  he  has  in  store  for  the  heirs  of 
Immortality, — I  know  of  no  return  more  filial,  or  more 
natural,  than  a  consecration  to  his  service,  of  whatever 
may  have  been  gathered  before,  for  a  meaner  shrine, 
or  vowed  to  a  God  unknown.  It  is  a  time  of  battle 
and  of  conflict ;  the  foes  of  the  Redeemer  wage  a  fierce 
war  against  Him,  and  false  friends  have  torn  his  very 
body.     Is  this  a  time 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

We  are  called  to  a  severer  work.  The  trumpet,  not 
the  lute — the  war-song,  not  the  love-lay,  are  the  only 
music  that  can  be  endured  in  our  camp.  When  Atha- 
nasion  was  written,  I  was  a  divinity  student  at  Chel- 
sea, beginning  to  realize  something  of  what  it  was  to 
be  even  a  cadet  in  Christ's  army.  I  was  called  to 
deliver  a  Poem  before  a  Christian  College,  and  in  a 
Christian  Church.  I  should  have  been  unworthy  of 
the  diocese  in  which  I  was  a  candidate  for  Orders,  and 
of  the  beloved  school  of  the  Prophets  where  I  was 


PREFACE.  XI 

learning  the  Church's  story  and  her  wants,  had  I  cho- 
sen the  occasion  and  the  place  for  a  mere  twaddle 
about  literature — the  beautiful,  and  the  sublime.  Since 
then,  I  have  been  recommended  to  my  Bishop  as  one 
who  had  neither  written  nor  taught  any-thing  con- 
trary to  sound  doctrine  ;  and,  so  recommended,  I  have 
been  solemnly  ordained  to  the  lowly  order  of  a  dea- 
con in  the  Church  of  God.  I  do  not  see  that  I  have 
yet  any  release  from  devoting  every  energy  to  my 
Master's  work ;  and  while  I  trust,  in  the  language  of 
the  Ordinal,  that  I  shall  be  "  so  modest,  humble,  and 
constant,  with  a  ready  will  to  obey  all  Spiritual  dis- 
cipline, that,  having  always  the  testimony  of  a  good 
conscience,  and  continuing  ever  stable  and  strong  in 
Christ,  I  may  so  well  behave  myself  in  this  inferior 
office  as  to  be  found  worthy  of  a  higher  ministry,"  I 
yet  moreover  pray,  that,  like  the  first  deacons,  St.  Ste- 
phen Protomartyr,  and  St.  Philip  Evangelist,  I  may 
have  always  an  answer  for  the  Synagogue  of  the 
Libertines,  or  be  ready  to  run  after  the  chariot  of  any 
modern  Indich,  who,  with  the  Scriptures  in  his  hand, 
is  driving  away  from  Jerusalem,  and  understands  not 
what  he  reads.  Is  it  not  "  using  the  office  of  a  deacon 
well?  to  purchase  to  ourselves  great  boldness  in  the 
faith,  besides  a  good  degree  ? 

Suffice  it  only  to  add,  that  Faith  and  Love  are  the 


Xll  PREFACE. 

principles,  from  and  to  which  the  Poem  is  humbly 
addressed.  I  send  it  forth  anew,  in  search  of  earnest 
minds,  that,  like  mine  own,  are  endeavouring,  though 
feebly,  to  get  free  from  the  cheerless,  sensual,  clog- 
ging, debasing,  heathenizing  influences,  which  stick, 
like  bird-lime,  to  every  wing  that  would  rise  into 
purer  and  more  heavenly  atmosphere,  from  the  dull 
earth,  and  contaminated  air  of — what  one  has  named 
in  our  behalf — the  age  of  unbelief. 

St.  Ann's  Rectory,  Morrisania, 
ApriU  1842. 


I. 

How  holy  is  the  spot, 

Where  haunting  Silence,  through  the  wide  domain, 

Breathes,  more  than  voices  from  the  Sybil's  grot, 

Avaunt  ye  souls  profane  : 

Where,  up  yon  lengthen'd  aisle  afar, 

A  sentence  once,  oracular, 

With  pacing  footstep  and  responsive  strain, 

Hath  call'd  sweet  Peace  to  reign, 

And  throned  a  stillness  here, 

That  bids  us  speak  in  fear, 

And  nothing  speak  in  vain. 

II. 

Nor  ye,  that  gather'd  now 

From  Learning's  homes,  would  hear  your  Idol's  praise, 

My  numbers  disallow, 


14  ATHANASION. 

If  to  such  lowly  lays, 
I  call  no  muse  that  wanders  far  aloof 

And  comes,  invoked,  to  all, 

But  choose  the  droppings  of  this  roof 

From  Silo's  fount  should  fall : 

Nor  ye  that  bade  the  song 

Its  notes  unworthy  deem, 

If  that  blest  streamlet's  flowering  banks  along, 

Its  dews  too  magic  seem ; 

For  I  have  felt  their  influence,  passing  strong, 

And  rise — as,  from  his  dream 

The  patriarch  woke  o'erawed, 

And  scarce  could  breathe,  for  fear, 

This  is  the  house  of  God, 

And  Heaven's  high  gate  is  here. 

III. 

I  know  that  every  sod 

Whereon  a  good  man  treads,  is  holy  ground  : 

For  he  is  full  of  God  : 

And  in  his  bosom's  bound, 

Lives  th'  Eternal  Spirit ;  dwelling  there 

From  that  dread  hour, 

When  he  was  written  heir, 

And  seal'd  a  son  of  God  with  power. 


ATHANASION.  15 

Who  wears  the  Christian  name, 

Hath  stamp'd  upon  his  brow, 

His  glory  or  his  shame. 

As  he  hath  kept  his  vow 

And  those  bright  garments  of  his  second  birth, 

So  doth  he  stand  on  Earth, 

With  black  Iscarioth,  or  with  godlike  Paul : 

For  we  are  warriors  all, 

And  in  our  blest  crusade, 

Not  Doric  mothers  swore  their  boys  to  fight, 

Like  ours,  when  we  were  made 

Each  one,  a  red-cross  knight, 

And  in  pure  armour  dight, 

Vow'd,  in  our  Captain's  might, 

To  wield  a  soldier-blade. 

Oh  ye  that  treasure  well 

The  pearl-drops  of  salvation,  shed 

By  mystic  miracle, 

Upon  the  beam-locks  of  your  childhood's  head, 

There  doth  a  spirit  dwell 

In  your  deep  bosoms'  bound, 

Haunting  the  soul's  profound, 

That  makes  the  common  Earth,  on  which  ye  tread, 

Thrice-hallow'd  ground  ! 


16  ATIIANASION. 

IV. 

So,  in  our  high  philosophy, 

Spirit  of  this  dull  age, 

Dream  not  that  we  are  worshippers  of  thee, 

Or  thank  that  harpy  wing  for  tutelage, 

From  which  the  many  writers  glean  a  pen  : 

For  we  have  read  His  wisdom,  who  was  sage 

In  Salem  once,  beyond  the  sons  of  men  ; 

And  that  great  son  of  Sirach's  golden  page, 

That,  writ  when  men  were  wise,  was  wisdom  then  : 

And  we  have  marked  his  blessed  pilgrimage, 

Who  was  himself  true  Wisdom,  sent  of  God  : 

And  we  are  marching  in  the  steps  He  trod, 

In  hope,  with  seraphs  yet  to  gather  fruit, 

Where  the  green  trees  of  life  take  deathless  root, 

And  o'er  the  crystal  of  light's  fountain-spring, 

Wave  their  sweet  branches,  ever  blossoming, 

Y. 

Joy  to  young  ardour  now 

That  not  with  Stoic's  lamp,  or  Epicure's, 

Burns  his  long  nights  away! 

But,  his  baptized  brow, 
Bends,  in  the  blaze  of  day, 

4 


ATHANASION.  17 

O'er  the  rich  scroll  of  knowledge  that  endures. 

Within  him,  flames  a  lamp, 

That  lights  the  cloisters  damp 

Of  its  clay  temple,  with  eternal  rays  : 

God,  who  is  sire  to  him, 

Hath  lit  his  spirit  dim, 

Still  brighter  burning,  with  a  perfect  blaze. 

Not,  as  in  Hellas  old, 

Or  villas  manifold, 

Round  Tibur's  cliff,  and  Anio's  leap  so  bold, 

Like  those  old  sophists  gropes  the  Christian  boy 

For  wisdom's  hidden  gold ! 

But  from  his  better  birth,  sure  heir  of  joy, 

He  pants  for  brighter  things,  through  power  divine 

Yearning  within  him,  and  outpouring  prayers, 

With  silent  groanings  ;  which  the  bread  and  wine 

Of  our  true  manna  evermore  repairs. 

Star-paven  is  his  way, 

And  his  first  footsteps  are  in  wondrous  light ; 

And  gloriously  he  may 

Escape  the  bounding  gulfs  of  Errour's  night ; 

For  him  no  taper  ray 

Leads,  like  the  Sybil's  bough, 

Further  from  light  astray, 


18  ATIIANASION. 

But  his  dear  guide  art  thou, 
Father  of  Lights,  for  aye. 

VI. 

Lo,  where  he  doth  abide, 

The  classic  heap  that  was  the  Heathen's  lore 

Is  deftly  piled  aside, 

To  love,  but  not  adore ; 

To  wonder  at,  and  be 

Like  furs  the  Stoic  wore, 

A  rare  old  sight,  to  see, 

But  fit  array  no  more. 

Psyche  and  Hebe  there, 

Dug  out  from  antique  mine, 

And  rich  beyond  compare, 

In  the  long  galleries  shine. 

And  he  doth  love  and  venerate  old  art, 

As  he  were  Phidias  or  Pericles  ; 

But,  the  deep  worship  of  his  flaming  heart, 

What  doth  it  find  in  these  ! 

The  Faith  in  him  that  burns, 

Like  living  coals — whereon  as  rapt  he  sings 

The  fuming  incense  of  his  love  he  flings, 
Hath  greater  marvels  with  the  chisel  wrought, 


." 


ATHAXASION.  19 

Than  Corinth's  columns,  or  Etruscan  urns ; 
And  with  the  pencil,  naught 
Shall  old  Apelles  vie  with  Angelo, 
Or  if  their  theme  be  sought, 
In  high  Uranian  fields,  or  Earth's  below. 
Nor  shall  ye  vaunt  to  me, 
Old  Jove  in  ivory, 
That  sat  in  might  on  proud  Olympia's  hill, 
When  ye  have  read  in  Michael's  blocks  sublime, 
How  all  they  dream'd  of  God  in  heathen  time, 
The  Christian's  thought  of  Man  shall  scarcely  fill. 
On  Sistine  walls,  with  hues  like  Hell's  severe, 
His  awful  pencil  painteth  to  the  ear, 
And  colours  there,  make  that  last  trumpet  speak, 
Whose  blast  shall  drive  all  colour  from  the  cheek  ; 
Man  looks  in  terrour,  as  he  yet  shall  look 
When  rings  that  trump,  and  opes  the  dooming  book, 
And  cries,  e'en  now,  that  doomsday  shriek  of  crime, 
Archangel !  Michael !  Spare  us  till  our  time  ! 
Aye,  call  him  Angel ;  he  excell'd  in  strength  ; 
And  Moses-like,  with  awful  rod  at  length, 
For  Moses'  body  struck  the  flinty  rock, 
Or  rived  for  struggling  Art  th'  entombing  block. 
God  hid  his  prophet :  He,  with  wizard  might, 

* 


• 


20  ATHANASION. 

Bared  the  deep  Earth,  and  brought  him  back  to  light, 
Stripp'd  from  the  burning  brow  the  veil  it  wore, 
And  bade  it  blaze  on  shrinking  sight  once  more. 
Nor  deem  it  vain — 'twas  naught  for  God  to  give, 
Whose  meanest  statues  breathe,  and  move,  and  live, 
If  God,  on  man,  such  godlike  power  bestow'd, 
To  point  the  moral  of  an  humble  ode, 
And  teach  our  hearts,  what  shadows  these  can  seem, 
To  him,  whose  soul  hath  waken'd  from  the  dream, 
To  read  what  wonders  our  sweet  Faith  hath  wrought, 
Turning  from  Earth's  dark  mine,  the  statue  Man, 
That  he  might  live  once  more, 
Such  as  he  was  of  yore, 
In  more  than  marble  glory,  angel-taught, 
And  godlike  as  at  first,  when  Earth  began. 

VII. 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  now, 

In  whom  such  faith  doth  flame  ; 

The  burning  lamp  of  his  baptismal  vow, 

And  his  high  Christian  name  ! 

Not  he  Panthea's  song, 

Or  Syren  music  heeds, 
Those  rock-bound  shores  along 


ATHANASION.  21 

Where  Folly's  shallop  speeds, 
Or  hies  in  fury  strong 
The  vext  of  many  creeds. 
For  with  complacency  that  princes  feel, 
When  envious  plebeians  ape  their  state, 
The  mind  ennobled  by  this  kingly  seal, 
May  sit  serenely  mid  the  little  Great, 
And  bear  the  pageant  of  their  short-lived  show  ; 
Where  age  on  age,  the  sparkling  bubbles  go, 
Frothing  and  foaming  o'er  the  troubled  sea ; 
While  on  the  Rock  of  Ages  liveth  he, 
Unshaken  by  the  puny  storm  below, 
Who  hath  high  heaven  for  his  cool  canopy, 
And  tempest  cannot  lay  his  fortress  low. 

VIII. 

Ye,  that  so  thickly  swarm, 

Nurs'd  by  the  artful  ray 

Of  chymic  Times,  from  many  a  hot-bed  warm 

That  steaming  breeds  the  insects  of  the  day  ; 

Ye,  that  buzz  on  your  hour, 

And  flit  the  summer  of  your  life  away ; 

Live  on  the  pretty  flower, 

That  is  your  nest,  and  that  was  born  like  you, 


22  ATHANASION. 

Both,  children  of  a  shower, 

And  wither'd  ere  the  dew ! 

But  talk  not  of  the  mountain  that  must  fill, 

The  solid  Earth  ;  nor  prate  of  ancient  lore, 

And  those  great  masters  of  the  tameless  will, 

Whom  old  Religion  bore. 

The  sateless  wisdom  of  the  heathen  sage 

Yearn'd  for  what  ye  despise, 

Ye,  that  in  wisdom's  age 
Will  feed  yourselves  with  lies ! 
The  cross  ye  trample,  and  the  Faith  sublime 
That  makes  Eternity  the  child  of  Time, 
They  dream'd  to  life,  and  lov'd  before  they  knew  ; 
Those  mighty  ones  that  in  the  garden  drew 
Knowledge  from  out  themselves !     And  in  their  dream, 
A  spirit  haunted  fane  and  Academe 
And  made  each  grotto  holy,  where  in  song, 
Or  deep  discourse,  Cephisus  banks  along, 
They  question'd  awful  Nature,  to  unroll 
The  secret  of  herself;  the  glorious  soul  ; 
The  story  of  its  coming;  the  brief  day, 
The  gloomy,  glimmering  twilight  of  its  stay  ; 
And  of  its  dread  departure  ;  the  deep  dark, 
That  cjuench'd  and  swallow'd  man's  diviner  spark  ; 


ATHANASION.  23 

And  then  of  homes  beyond,  where  Psyche  went, 

When,  like  the  moth's,  her  summer-day  was  spent. 

So  mused  far-wander'd  man,  for  in  his  breast 

Lurk'd  a  faint  memory  of  his  Eden-nest, 

And  nigh  to  drown,  he  caught  some  fragments  hurl'd 

From  that  old  ark,  that  floated  o'er  the  world. 

And  such  dear  thoughts,  nigh  kindled  into  flame 

From  smouldering  embers  of  Jehovah's  name, 

Flared  round  the  chambers  of  the  Stoic  mind, 

But  left,  for  lack  of  light,  a  Plato  blind. 

And  gods  grew  out  of  men  :  for  thoughts  so  high, 

Taught  their  fond  spirits,  mind  could  never  die, 

And  such  undying  souls  must  have  a  sire ! 

Then  did  they  build  Acropolis  still  higher, 

With  column,  and  rich  architrave,  and  frieze 

Rough  with  the  sculpture  of  deep  mysteries  ; 

And  pure  Pentelic  marble  was  a  shrine 

To  its  own  glory,  in  a  shape  divine  ; 

And  the  wing'd  soul  breath;  d  forth  its  beauty  rare, 

Shedding  witch-magic  on  the  haunted  air ; 

A.nd  mind  had  still  no  deity,  but  sought 

Deeper,  far  deeper  than  the  chisel  wrought, 

For  this  strange  being's  Father  :  and  its  might 

Yet  further  groped  in  rebel  Nature's  spite, 


24  ATHANASION. 

When  hoary  Wisdom,  drinking  in  its  cage, 
The  hemlock  tribute  of  a  thankless  age, 
Yearn'd  for  some  god,  come  down  to  earth  agen, 
To  show  how  Jove  were  just,  forgiving  men. 
So  nigh  rose  man  to  heaven,  ere  came  indeed 
That  God  to  Earth,  for  us  poor  men  to  bleed  : 
So  far  went  Wisdom,  till  its  pleasing  pain 
Bore  all  but  Truth,  from  Errour's  labouring  brain ; 
So  far  went  Nature,  till  it  fain  would  grave 
A  gospel-text  upon  Athene's  pave, 
And  rear  to  light  upon  her  clouded  sod, 
Her  holiest  altar,  to  the  unknown  God. 

IX. 

The  nameless  God  is  known  ! 

A  bold  apostle  came, 

And  on  that  altar-stone 

Made  the  dull  embers  flame. 

Now  God  is  God  alone, 

And  the  Redeemer's  name 

Hath  temples,  that  are  miracles  of  might, 

Where  late  they  walk'd  in  night, 

Where  heathen  lands,  in  darkness  once, 

Are  made  the  Lord's  inheritance, 


ATHANASION.  25 

Where  they  that  sat  in  gloom,  have  seen  a  wondrous  light. 

X. 

For  like  Earth's  caverns  then, 

That  yawn  upon  the  sea, 

Lay  the  dark  world  of  men, 

Fast  by  Eternity : 

And  if,  in  the  deep  fathom-  of  its  womb, 

Some  native  gem  was  sparkling, 

Like  tapers  in  the  tomb, 

It  made  the  dark  more  darkling. 

Then  burst  the  sweet  sunbeam 

Far  o'er  his  ocean  way, 

And  sent  the  stretching  gleam, 

Full  where  those  caverns  lay  : 

'Twas,  as  when  Nature  heard 

That  primal  voice — Be  bright, 

And  at  Jehovah's  word, 

Leap'd  forth  the  new-born  light ! 

And,  like  a  diamond  mine, 

When  first  'tis  oped  to  Day, 

Outflashing,  in  full  shine, 

With  blazing  ray  on  ray, 

So  did  the  deepest  niche  of  that  dark  cave, 


26 


ATHANASIOX. 


Glitter  with  lustre  rare, 

And  many  a  jewel  sparkling  from  its  grave, 

Glow'd  with  the  holy  glare  ; 

And,  like  stalagmites  on  the  grotto  floor, 

Rose  lofty  pinnacles 

That  valley'd  landscape  o'er, 

With  spires  and  fretted  cells  : 

And  now  in  dark,  no  more, 

Those  gothic  rocks  stood  high, 

Uprearing  to  the  sky 

Rude  sculpture,  which  they  bore, 

Of  that  dear  cross  on  which  the  Lord  did  die. 

XL 

The  Star  whose  first  arising  charm 'd  the  Wise, 

And  drew  the  Magian's  incense  from  the  East, 
Lo  !  it  hath  kindled  now  the  glowing  skies, 

And  bending  nations  pray  with  Persia's  priest. 
He  from  his  watch-tower  first  sung  orison, 

To  that  true  light  which  lighteth  all  our  eyes  ; 
And  well  the  Parsee,  that  adores  the  sun, 

Might  see  our  Sun  of  Righteousness  arise. 
Not  then  the  less  to  holy  courts  and  fanes, 
Sweet  Wisdom  led  her  children  by  the  hand, 


ATHANASION.  27 

But  forth  she  wander'd,  and  in  every  land, 
Still  was  her  home  in  Faith's  sublime  domains. 

Then  Faith,  for  her,  the  studious  cloister  rear'd 
In  grove  and  forest  broad, 

And  where  the  steeple  with  its  cross  appear'd, 
Rose  the  near  college,  consecrate  to  God. 
There  then  they  came,  the  young,  the  warm  of  soul, 
In  catechumen  lawn,  or  student  stole, 
And  Learning  there,  with  midnight  oil  alone, 
To  lated  pilgrim  made  the  convent  known  : 
And  there  young  Zeal,  gave  up  what  charm'd  it  first, 
And  all  the  hopes  its  dazzled  childhood  nurs'd, 
Subdued  in  heart,  to  pray  at  morn  and  eve, 
And  lauds  with  vigils  learn'd  to  interweave, 
While  this  wild  life  he  sooth'd  to  holy  calm, 
By  stilly  waters  following  the  Lamb. 
There,  with  strict  pen,  in  many  a  shining  line, 
Their  bright  embalming  saved  the  books  divine. 
And  these  are  they,  not  seen  on  Earth  agen, 
Where  base  successors  shame  those  holy  men, 
Who  kept  the  Faith  ;  and  bold,  in  hour  of  need, 
For  Christ's  dear  honour  thought  it  joy  to  bleed  ; 
Who  watch'd  the  garments  of  their  second  birth, 
And  kept  them  ever  undented  from  Earth, 
Till  up  they  went,  their  martyr-crowns  to  wear, 


28  ATIIANASION. 

And  still  to  walk  in  virgin-raiment  there, 
A  noble  host — ere  Rome  had  soil'd  their  name, 
Or  our  chaste  Mother  wept  one  daughter's  shame. 

XII. 

So  in  the  cloisters  of  a  later  age, 
Walk'd  with  his  God,  old  England's  eldest  sage, 
And  her  fair  story  in  his  lines  we  read  ; 
And  bless  thy  goodness,  venerable  Bede ! 
Nor  there  her  Alfred  was  ashamed  to  pray 
While  burn'd  the  tapers  of  his  toilsome  day  : 
Or  all  night  long  his  studious  lamp  would  flame 
In  some  old  lodge,  of  saintly  Saxon  name, 
Where  watch'd  a  king,  o'er  blest  Evangel  bent 
That  he  might  leave  God's  word,  his  monument, 
And  teach  our  sires  to  breathe  their  Glory  round, 
At  Holy  Gospel,  in  an  English  sound. 
And  his  the  hand  that  cast  a  golden  seed, 
On  Isis'  banks,  where  waved  the  fringy  reed, 
Till  up  huge  hall  and  college  shot  their  spires, 
And  midnight  sparkled  with  the  scholars'  fires. 
Nor  quench'd  that  light,  the  Norman's  slavish  knell 
That  rung  to  bury  lore — the  curfew-bell : 
'Tis  Oxford  yet — old  mother  of  the  sage 


ATHANASION.  29 

Bearing  new  giants  in  our  barren  age : 

A  thousand  years — and  seeds  that  then  took  root, 

Spring  now  to  birth,  and  scatter  golden  fruit : 

A  thousand  years — and  Oxford  yet  shall  be, 

With  her  old  Faith,  old  Lore,  and  Loyalty ! 

On  Isis'  banks,  go  see  where  Alfred  dwelt, 

At  Oxford's  shrines,  go  kneel  where  Alfred  knelt ; 

Across  the  waves — nay,  here  it  is  not  hid, 

These  aisles,  these  arches,  tell  what  Alfred  did. 

XIII. 

As  Sheba's  child,  in  far  unknown  domain, 

Told  many  a  year  of  Israel's  glory-reign, 

So  long  shall  here,  Columbia's  tutor'd  son, 

Bless  the  dear  Lord,  for  England's  Solomon. 

Ay,  who  shall  stand  these  gothic  aisles  within, 

Nor  feel  with  Alfred,  and  with  England  kin ; 

Who  here  shall  bend  at  Eucharist  and  prayer, 

And  not  a  moment,  breathe  old  England's  air ; 

Who  here  shall  come  when  Christmas-wreaths  are  green, 

And  not  her  ancient  holly-bough  be  seen ; 

Who  here,  devout,  his  Christian  head  shall  bow, 

For  bishop's  blessing  on  his  primal  vow, 

Nor  breathe  one  Glory  to  the  power  divine 


30  ATHANASION. 

For  our  Apostles  in  an  English  line  ! 
Or  where's  the  pulse,  that — if  it  knows  no  bound, 
When  out  the  chimings  of  old  England  sound, 
Throbs  still  as  tame,  when  o'er  this  giant  land, 
He  sees  the  many  towers  of  Learning  stand, 
And  hears  how  holy  Church,  that  sent  afar 
Her  bold  apostles,  to  the  Western  Star, 
With  that  red  banner  that  in  Salem  flew, 
Claims  our  young  Letters  for  her  nursling  too ! 

XIV. 

Oft  when  the  Eve-star,  sinking  into  day, 

Seems  Empire's  planet  on  its  westward  way, 

Comes,  in  soft  light  from  antique  window's  groin, 

Thy  pure  Ideal,  mitred  saint  of  Cloyne  ! 

Taught  from  sweet  childhood,  to  revere  in  thee, 

Earth's  every  virtue,  writ  in  poesie, 

Nigh  did  I  leap,  on  Clio's  calmer  line, 

To  see  thy  story  with  our  own  entwine. 

On  Yale's  full  walls,  no  pictur'd  shape  to  me, 

Like  Berkeley's  seem'd,  in  priestly  dignity, 

Such  as  he  stood,  fatiguing,  year  by  year, 

In  our  behoof,  dull  prince  and  cavalier  ; 

And  dauntless  still,  as  erst  the  Genoese 

Such  as  he  wander'd  o'er  the  Indy  seas, 


ATHANASION.  31 

To  vext  Bermoothes,  witless  that  he  went 

Mid  isles  that  beckon'd  to  a  Continent. 

Such  there  he  seem'd,  the  pure,  the  undefiled  ! 

And  meet  the  record !     Though,  perchance  I  smiled, 

That  those,  in  him,  themselves  will  glorify, 

Who  reap  his  fields,  but  let  his  doctrine  die. 

Yet,  let  him  stand :  the  world  will  note  it  well, 

And  Time  shall  thank  them  for  the  chronicle, 

By  such  confess'd,  Columbus  of  new  homes 

For  Song,  and  Science  with  her  thousand  tomes. 

Yes — pure  apostle  of  our  western  Lore, 

Spoke  the  full  heart,  that  now  may  breathe  it  more, 

Still  in  those  halls,  where  none  without  a  sneer, 

Name  the  dear  title  of  thy  ghostly  fear, 

Stand  up,  bold  bishop — in  thy  priestly  vest ; 

Proof  that  the  Chukch  bore  letters  to  the  West ! 

XV. 

Sons  of  that  Church  are  we 

Beneath  the  vesper-star, 
In  lands  that  yet  must  have  strange  history, 

Of  Times  in  which  we  are  ! 
And  we  must  live  our  day ; 

And  we  must  live  it  well, 
And  leave  in  our  dark  way, 


32  ATHANASION. 

Some  light,  our  path  to  tell ! 
Sons  of  the  Church  are  we, 

And  who  but  she  shall  guide, 
Mother  and  nurse  of  Immortality, 

And  our  Redeemer's  bride ! 
She,  while  on  earth  we  fare, 
Makes  Faith  to  us,  and  holy  Wisdom — one, 
The  sweet  twin-breasts  of  her  that  did  us  bear, 

And  dear  to  every  son. 
They  err  who  call  rash  youth,  our  pupilage, 

s        For  Life  itself  is  only  Infancy  ; 
_^  And  not  rehearsers  for  a  flimsy  stage,  "*"* 

„ Or  drill'd  cadets  for  life's  short  fray,  are  we,  <**»- 

^ But  we  are  learning  for  Eternity,  .f"" 

And  she  that  bare  us,  calls  us  children  still  ; 

For  Earth  is  our  sweet  mother's  nursery, 

And  we  are  waiting  for  our  Father's  will, 

When  the  adoption  of  his  sons  shall  be ! 

Oh  hear  her  warning  words,  with  childlike  thrill, 

And  count  them  God's  own  oracle  to  thee. 

XVI. 

The  world  is  hoary  grown, 
And  deeper  furrows  do  her  age-rheums  plow, 


ATHANASION.  33 

For  many  a  mother's  moan, 

Sent  forth  from  her  all-nurturing  bosom  now. 

Time  shall  no  longer  be, 

Than  needeth  for  an  end ; 

And  Babel-builders  of  idolatry, 

Must  leave  their  half-burnt  bricks  anon, 

And  their  high  towers  descend, 

To  hear  the  last  confusion  coming  on, 

With  storm  to  rock,  and  shocks  to  rend, 

And  the  last  angel's  voice,  with  trumpet  call, 

Reading  the  worn-out  world's  bad  burial, 

When  every  house  shall  fall, 

Uprear'd  by  foolish  hand, 

And  peering  proud  and  tall, 

But  founded  on  the  sand. 

XVII. 

Trust  ye  to  Reason's  hand, 

The  soul  ye  carry  in  your  warm  young  breast ! 

Then  scar  your  bosom  with  a  burning  brand, 

And  name  it  serpent-nest. 

Look  not  to  this  ripe  age  : 

That  age  is  wise  itself  that  disesteems, 

And  deems  its  fathers,  sage, 


34 


* 


ATIIANASrON. 

Nor  trusts  its  cradle-dreams. 

Yearn  for  the  age  of  gold ; 

The  age  that  next  shall  be ! 

But  of  this  Present  be  the  name  untold ; 

Its  birth  was  Infamy  ! 

Up  from  that  Gaulish  hell  that  boil'd  but  now, 

And  bore,  in  whelping  throes, 

Times  of  unchristen'd  brow, 

What  locust  hordes  arose ! 

Read  of  that  GoD-eclipse 

No  more,  on  Clio's  page, 

That  deep  in  blood  her  painter-pencil  dips, 

And  limns  the  infernal  tale  with  muttering  lips, 

Like  some  black  Archimage  ; 

God  hath  reveal'd  this  age 

In  that  old  Elder's  dread  Apocalypse, 

Whose  soul  with  wonder  still'd, 

Stood  long  agone,  in  Patrnos,  thrill'd 

With  visions  wild,  and  far-off  sight 

Of  unborn  years  of  fright  ; 

Woe  after  woe  fulfill'd, 

And  still  new  woes  and  sorrows  yet  to  be  ! 

Then  did  the  fire-girt  scorpions  burn  for  death, 

And  stung  their  death-pangs  free ; 


■u 


ATHANASION.  35 

While  fiend  on  fiend  steam'd  up,  as  from  the  breath 

Of  Acheron,  that  smokes  eternally  ! 

And  half  that  woe  was  gone  ; 

Another  sound  there  came, 

Rolling  like  thunder  on, 

And  brazen  hosts,  with  breastplates  all  aflame, 

Rose,  with  that  angel  of  abhorred  name, 

Their  king,  Apollyon  ! 

His  wing'd  artillery,  behind, 

Roar'd — like  a  rushing,  mighty  wind  ; 

And  o'er  the  world  the  shadow  of  his  form, 

Stretch'd,  like  the  spirit  of  the  storm, 

While  in  the  cloud,  swept  on  his  wild  dragoons, 

With  crests  of  streaming  hair, 

Far  as  the  fierce  typhoons 
That  Earth  and  Ocean  tear. 
Yea — though  the  sound  be  sped, 

Say  not  'tis  by-gone  now  ; 
'Twas  but  the  monster's  head  ; 

His  coil  lags  on,  I  trow  ! 

The  writhings  of  his  horrid  train 

Lash  the  crush'd  nations  still ; 

His  sting  remaineth,  and  shall  yet  remain, 

Until  another's  will. 


* 


36  ATHANASION. 

Why  should  the  lesson  be  ? 

That  Earth,  with  added  slaughter-drops  might  fill, 

The  trembling  urn  of  her  dark  destiny ; 

And  learn  what  bitter  bloodstreams  may  distil, 

In  Reason's  age,  from  pure  Philosophie  ! 

XVIII. 

Trust  ye  to  Freedom's  vaunt ; 

The  unchain'd  people's  song  ! 

Then  nerve  ye,  for  the  taunt 

Of  faithless  friends  ere  long ! 

Oh,  shun  the  war  of  tongues : 

Back  from  the  vain  debate ; 

The  Upas-blast  of  lungs, 

The  desert-clouds  of  state  ; 

Nor  with  the  rabble  that  are  flowing  strong, 

Like  young  Niagara  to  his  cliffs  along, 

Give  thy  poor  soul  to  fate  ! 

The  people's  tumult  rageth  but  an  hour, 

^  And  in  that  hour  ye  die  : 

Give  not  your  short-lived  spirit,  to  the  power, 

That  souls  are  trampled  by  ! 

The  whisper'd  story  of  a  well-spent  life, 

Speaks  louder  than  the  Boreas  of  strife,  J  " 


ATHANASION.  37 

And  in  your  high  hopes  sure. 

Looking  to  calmer  worlds,  through  tears  for  this. 

Like  him  that  our  dear  Lord  and  leader  is, 

Say,  can  ye  not  endure  ? 

XIX. 

He  that,  in  peace,  his  triumph  knows, 
Walks  Earth,  as  ne'er  its  Caesars  trod ; 

From  ill  to  ill,  a  conqueror  goes, 

And  mounts  to  his  great  Captain— God. 

What  recks  he  of  the  mob's  distrust, 

The  clamour  of  their  mouths  of  dust ; 

Before  high  Heaven  that  man  is  just ! 

The  wisdom  that  we  love,  looks  up  from  Earth  : 

And  if  these  troubled  things  are  yet  to  be, 

Then  triumphs  our  divine  Philosophy, 

When  human  doctrines  are  the  rabble's  mirth ; 

For  our  first  lesson  is  Eternity 

And  the  pure  nature  of  our  second  birth. 

In  our  progressive  being,  Time  is  naught, 

And  we  can  bear  its  strife  ; 
For  yet  with  awful  burthen  is  it  fraught, 
And  giant  birth-throes  of  an  endless  life. 
The  world  of  little  men, 


38  ATHANASION. 

Count  foolish  our  sweet  faith : 

But  look  on  them  agen  : 

The  end  of  these  is  Death. 

What  boots  it  they  have  lived  their  long  threescore ; 

For  it  hath  pass'd,  and  now  it  is  no  more  ! 

And  all  their  fury  strong, 

For  fancied  right  or  wrong, 

Is  gone,  like  summer-day,  so  slow  that  wore, 

But  rung  to  evensong. 

XX. 

Oh,  could  I  be  as  they, 
Sweet  were  no  wisdom  but  the  Epicure's ! 

Why  spend  short  hours  in  fray, 

Or  turn  joy's  channels  into  reeking  sewers. 

I'd  toss  such  Life  away 

Where  old  Anacreon  lures, 

And  with  the  roses  play, 

Long  as  my  pulse  endures, 

Or  my  wreathed  head  is  gray. 

But  if  this  spirit  may 

Be  such  as  cannot  die  ; 

If  nature  lives,  for  aye, 

Beyond  mortality  ! 


ATHANASION.  39 

Oh  lead  me  to  that  hermitage,  where  dwells 

Some  sage  astrologer, 

That  reads  the  starry  universe,  and  tells, 

So  I  may  never  err, 

In  what  sweet  orb  he  readeth  with  his  glass, 

This  soul  of  mine  its  endless  age  shall  pass  ! 

And  if,  in  learned  fur, 

No  scholar  that  hath  question'd  tells  me  this  ; 

Oh  who  shall  guide  me  through  the  wilderness, 

But  she,  that  cometh  through  the  dale  along, 

And  leadeth  with  her  a  delighted  throng, 

And  calls  me  child,  and  bids  me  walk  with  her ! 

XXL 

The  spouse  of  our  dear  Lord, 

Is  travelling  in  the  greatness  of  her  strength, 

Amid  these  wilds  abhorr'd, 

Unwearied  by  the  journey's  sultry  length  ; 

And  luring  her  true  children,  to  their  home, 

By  stories  of  its  pleasures,  yet  to  come ; 

All  motherlike — that  win  the  infant  mind 

By  brighter  promise,  to  the  martyrdom, 

Of  leaving  toys  behind  ! 

And  we  that  join  her  train, 


I 


40  ATHANASION. 

Must  bear  the  mock  of  old  Astrologie, 

The  laugh,  of  dry  Philosophic ; 

For  they  esteem  it  vain, 

And  sneer,  that  such  as  we,  by  such  beguil'd, 

Do  thus  transform  us  to  a  little  child, 
And  leave  their  solemn  lamp,  and  hermit  fane. 

XXII. 

Now,  through  the  desert  go, 

With  smiles  and  joyous  haste, 

As  speeds  the  caravan 

New  started  from  a  flow 

Of  sweetest  waters  in  Sahara's  waste. 

Yes,  rouse  thee,  Christian  man  ! 

And  feel  within  thee,  how  it  can  restore 

Thy  vanish'd  years,  in  sooth, 

And  make  thee,  boy,  once  more, 

In  all  the  dews  of  youth. 

Up  from  thy  long  delay  ; 

On,  in  thy  noble  way  ; 

On,  with  uplifted  eye 

And  full  heart  panting  for  a  manly  strife  ! 

For  thou  to  live,  must  die, 

And,  dying,  find  thy  life. 


ATHANASION.  41 

On,  for  the  world  is  old, 

And  thou  hast  much  to  do : 

Oh,  in  the  battle-work  of  life,  be  bold, 

And  march  in  triumph,  through. 

The  awful  Past  leads  up  the  coming  hour, 

The  marriage  of  Eternities  is  here  ; 

The  solemn  Present  speaks  with  priestly  power, 

The  future  mother  sheds  a  virgin  tear. 

Now,  in  thy  heart  decide 

Beneath  thine  own  true  banner-folds  to  war, 

Or  go— and  seek  thy  guide, 

Where  the  leagued  Paynim  are ! 

Go,  with  the  many  mad, 

The  motley  army  of  thy  mother's  foes  ? 

Go,  with  the  raging  bad, 

And  'gainst  thy  brothers  in  the  battle  close, 

A  scoffing  coward  with  a  villain  blade ! 

Go,  write  thyself  with  those, 

Thou  soulless  renegade  J 
J 

XXIIL 

For  us,  let  paeans  ring, 

And  high  Te-Deum  swell : 

True-hearted  we,  in  warfare  for  our  King, 

D* 


42  ATHANASION. 

Yet  fain  in  peace  to  dwell ! 

We  quarrel  not  with  Time  : 

Two  captives,  in  one  cell, 

May  hear  the  same  dull  chime 

Of  their  old  prison-bell, 

And  give  each  measured  stroke  responsive  rhyme : 

The  one,  with — ah,  how  long  ! 

The  other — ah,  so  fleet, 

The  dial  sure  is  wrong  ! 

For  one,  hath  hope  of  his  deliverance  sweet ; 

The  other  broods  on  crime, 

And  hour  on  hour,  he  starteth  at  his  knell. 

So  they  who  caged  on  Earth, 

Look  only  for  a  Hell, 

And  dice  their  prayer-hours  off  in  feigned  mirth, 

I  can  believe  it  well, 

May  with  each  moment  sigh — 

Dark  hours,  how  swift  ye  fly  ! 

While,  in  our  bosoms  yearning  to  be  free, 

The  crawling  sunbeams  scarce  we  bear  to  see, 

Yet  patiently  endure, 

And  strive  to  make  our  days  go  pleasantly, 

Beguiling  with  sweet  song,  or  doctrine  pure, 

The  dullness  of  our  long  captivity. 


ATHANASION.  43 

f  And  so  would  we  allure 

Our  fellow-bondmen  to  shake  off  their  chains  ; 

If  haply,  they,  at  length, 

While  one  blest  hour  remains, 

May  wrestle  with  them  in  a  godly  strength, 

And  stand  with  us,  unbound  : 

For  we  escape  have  found, 

Can  see  the  starlight  through  ; 

And  if  we  tarry  on  our  prison  ground, 

'Tis  but  a  moment — pointing  to  the  blue, 

And  beckoning  our  brothers,  from  their  sleep, 

To  rouse,  and  be  away, 

While  the  stern  jaiier  is  in  slumber  deep, 

And  their  last  day-dawn  is  already  gray. 

XXIV. 

So,  in  our  simple  creed, 

We  drop  this  frail  mortality  we  wear, 

And — laud  to  Him  who  for  our  sakes  did  bleed, 

And  on  his  cross  our  bitter  griefs  did  bear ! 

We  know  our  ransom'd  nature,  certain  heir 

Of  deathless  being  from  its  dying  seed. 

They  who  nurse  hopes,  live  every  day,  an  age, 

And  strive  more  fleet  to  live,  by  living  well : 


# 


44  ATHANASION. 

And  so,  we  hasten  on  our  pilgrimage, 

Plucking  Earth's  flowers,  but  fain  in  Heaven  to  dwell* 

Life,  in  our  ear,  doth  mean  Eternity : 

And  Time,  our  staff,  but  speeds  us  on  our  way, 

While  all  around  poor  voyagers,  we  see, 

Who  bear  it,  but  to  chronicle  each  day, 

And  notch  the  hurrying  hours  of  destiny, 

In  fearful  units — numbering  for  dismay 

The  lavished  seeds  of  Immortality. 

But  oh,  our  souls  take  no  account  of  Time, 

For  we  are  gazing  into  worlds  sublime  : 

(  Our  spirits  are  like  song-birds,  nurst  to  light 

In  climates  %r  too  rude, 

That  by  an  heavenly  instinct,  stretch  their  flight, 

To  skies,  where  such  bright  plumes  were  made  to  brood. 

We  know  our  kindred  there, 

In  genial  warmth,  their  golden  plumage  wear, 

And  sing  their  native  notes  forevermore  : 

We  yearn  for  purer  air, 

And  dream  the  music  we  were  made  to  share, 

As  home,  we  waft  us  from  an  alien  shore. 

XXV. 

Us,  Holy  Mother  shall  conduct  along, 
Young  seraphs,  only  with  unsprouted  wings, 


ATHANASION.  45 

Till  with  the  highest  angels  we  are  strong, 

And  dwell  in  light  like  Uriel,  that  sings 

In  God's  own  palace ;  and  that  cherub  throng 

That,  knowing  all,  are  pictured  childlike  things, 

And  twinned  with  children  in  the  poets'  song. 

Yet  are  they  full  of  eyes, 

And  read  the  secrets  of  their  veil'd  abode, 

While  groping  men  are  counted  Deities, 

That  on  their  mole-hills  pair  themselves  with  God. 

The  highest  man  may  be, 

The  God  within  us,  prompteth  to  aspire  : 

'Tis  not  Ambition,  but  Divinity  ! 

And  upward  soaring,  mind  can  never  tire  : 

Yet,  on  the  mountain-top,  'tis  joy  to  see 

While  the  pure  ether  cools  our  pulse  of  fire, 

What  worlds  on  worlds,  what  depth  of  destiny, 

Allure  unwearied  Hope  to  wing  us  higher. 

<^_j.  For  well  we  know,  our  yearnings  so  sublime, 

And  these  high  thoughts  that  Earth  can  ne'er  controul, 

Yea — all  that  mind  can  make  itself  in  Time, 

Are  but  the  tottering  struggles  of  the  soul ; 

The  longings  of  a  little  one  to  climb ; 

An  infant's  toppling  toward  the  faery  goal, 

That,  as  we  follow  on, 


46  ATHANASION. 

Doth  still— still  further  roll, 

And  never  can  be  won. 

So  God  himself  doth  tempt  us  into  strength, 

As  if  a  father  smiled  : 

And  he  that  boldest  runs  the  garden  length, 

Is  yet  a  little  child. 

They  err,  who  see  not  o'er  the  flowering  hedge, 

Hill  over  hill,  and  Heaven's  unfathom'd  blue, 

But  shout  when  they  have  gain'd  their  playground's  edge 

As  if  Eternity  were  travell'd  through. 

Such,  on  their  baby  feet  feel  giant-grown  ; 

But  mind's  full  stature  shall  be  wondrous  tall. 

They  trust  their  infant  strength,  and  run  alone, 

While  we  stand  mute,  and  list  a  Father's  call, 

Run,  run  to  your  sweet  mother,  lest  ye  fall. 

XXVI. 

Truth  is  Jehovah's  child, 

And  God's  dear  children  claim  her  next  of  kin  ; 

And  me  long  wandering  once  in  mazes  wild, 

Truth  met  astray — my  sister  undefiled  ! 

Showed  me  my  Mother's  home,  and  led  me  in. 

I  cannot  love  her  less,  because  she  wears 

The  buxom  beauty  of  the  townless  field, 


ATHANASION.  47 

For  she  hath  led  me  safe  through  many  snares, 
To  where  my  Mother's  dwelling  was  conceal'd. 
{  I  love  its  antique  nest,  its  summer  flowers, 

'     Its  evergreens  in  winter,  and  its  board 

Wreath'd  all  the  year,  with  joyous  festal  hours, 

And  fond  remembrance  of  its  blessed  Lord, 

I  love  it,  as  I  love  all  lovely  things, 

For  it  is  beautiful ;  a  blessed  home 

To  which,  as  to  a  heaven,  my  spirit  clings, 

That  tired  of  roaming  would  no  longer  roam. 

I  love  it  for  the  skylight  in  its  thatch, 

That  lets  the  hues  of  heaven  upon  my  cell : 

I  love  it  for  its  hospitable  latch, 

And  for  the  charm  it  throweth  where  I  dwell, 

Making  even  Earth  look  lovely,  when  I  catch, 

A  glimpse  at  Nature,  through  its  Oriel. 

I  love  it  as  the  fold  God  bade  me  keep, 

The  garden  planted  by  a  father  dear, 

As  the  green  pasture  of  the  Saviour's  sheep, 

Nor  less,  that  Truth,  my  sister,  led  me  here. 

XXVII. 

Sweet  is  our  mother's  teaching  and  caress ! 
Tears  for  our  brothers  then, 


48  ATHANASION. 

Whose  souls  awearied  with  her  loveliness 

Can  leave  her  blessed  roof  for  cruel  men  ! 

They,  like  the  truant  boy, 

Toss'd  far  away  upon  the  bitter  sea, 

Have  woe,  while  we  have  joy  ; 

And  fearful  wrecks  may  be 

Upon  the  shores  we  love,  and  hasten  to  ; 

Thy  shores  Eternity, 

So  beautiful  of  hue  ! 

For  us,  a  few  short  hours  to  dwell  on  Earth, 

A  few  short  years  to  wrestle  with  its  sorrow, 

And  though  we  sleep,  we  spring  again  to  birth, 

And  they  that  die  to-day,  shall  live  to-morrow. 

XXVIII. 

Go  forth  with  courage  now,  and  know  full  well, 
The  soul  that  thinks  within  you,  and  is  brave 
Amid  the  tempests  that  make  Earth  a  hell, 
Shall  never,  never  slumber  in  the  grave. 
A  thousand  years,  and  years  on  years  sublime, 
So  may  we  mete  Eternity  by  Time  ; 
A  thousand  cycles  measured  day  by  day, 
When  Day  itself  shall  long  have  burnt  away  : 


ATHANASION.  49 

^ge  upon  age,  from  this  blest  moment  here, 
Then  just  beginning  in  its  nobler  sphere ; 
Each  single  soul,  each  mind  that  lists  me  now ; 
Yes — shrinking  spirit — these,  and  surely  thou  ! 
I  know — in  some  far  world  beyond  our  ken, 
Deathless  as  God,  will  still  be  thinking  then. 
There  is  no  end  ;  Ye  are,  and  cannot  die  ! 
What  shall  I  measure  your  far  journey  by  ! 
Time's  head  is  old — but  older  ye  shall  be, 
Ere  ye  have  tasted  Immortality  ; 
And  ages  past,  beyond  all  chronicle, 
Are  atoms  only,  to  what  ye  must  tell. 
Oh  thou  companion  Spirit !  that  with  me, 
Art  outward  standing  on  a  shoreless  sea, 
(  A  little  while,  these  native  hills  shall  peer 
Far  o'er  oar  way,  in  calm  blue  atmosphere ; 
And  then,  like  smoke,  shall  vanish,  seen  no  more, 
While  still  we  sail  the  endless  billows  o'er, 
Onward — still  onward,  with  new  gales  around, 
But  ne'er  a  breeze  from  this  abandon'd  ground, 
With  only  that  deep  Ocean  underspread, 
And  calm  Eternal  Heaven  above  our  head. 


* 


50  ATHAXASIO>\ 


XXIX. 


Then,  in  some  hour,  shall  ye  perchance  recall 

The  golden,  long-fled  memory 

Of  this  dear  native  Earth,  this  little  ball, 

This  birth-place  of  your  Immortality  ! 

Then  shall  ye  wonder  at  the  things  ye  are, 

And  on  your  seraph-nature  look  with  joy  ; 

As  man  full-grown,  will  wonder,  from  afar, 

Upon  his  tiny  beicg,  when  a  boy. 

Then  shall  ye  marvel  Earth  appear'd  so  great. 

As  little  children  marvel  at  a  star  ; 

For,  in  the  glory  of  your  blest  estate, 

Who  knows  but  ye  may  be  high  tutelar, 

Of  some  new  universe,  that  is  to  be  ! 

Onward  Immortals  then,  to  Immortality  ! 

XXX. 

I  know  that  ye  shall  die, 

And  on  each  cherish'd  limb, 

The  glutton  worm  shall  lie, 

And  sight's  pure  spark  be  dim. 

But  more  I  know,  that  my  Redeemer  lives, 

And  I  shall  stand  on  Earth,  that  latter  day  ; 


ATHANASION.  51 

And  this  poor  dust,  its  dust  to  dust  that  gives, 

Shall  feel  his  Spirit  breathing  o'er  its  clay. 

I  know  the  time  shall  come, 

When,  through  the  charnel  dumb, 

A  voice  shall  ring  upon  the  slumbering  ear  : 

These  bones  shall  startle  then. 

And  feel  strange  life  agen, 

And  these  decaying  fibres  leap  to  hear. 

I  know  these  hands  shall  wrestle  with  the  turf, 

That  Time  shall  heap  upon  them,  all  in  vain  ; 
Or  struggle  upward  from  the  stormy  surf, 

So  I  be  buried  in  the  mighty  main. 
Yes — 'tis  not  long,  ere  I  shall  shake  the  clay 

That  years  have  matted  on  my  moulderd  brow, 
And  tear  the  cerements  of  the  grave  away. 

With  these  same  muscles  that  are  lusty  now. 
My  embryo  spirit  knows  it.     I  can  feel 

That  mother  Earth  must  bear  me,  from  her  sod. 
Like  our  first  father  of  the  bruised  heel, 

That  we  may  spring  to  our  best  father — God. 


NOTES. 


"  A  sentence  once  oracular" 

Page  13,  strophe  1. 


Referring  to  the  form  and  manner  of  consecrating  a  church;  see 
Prayer-Book.  The  bishop  and  clergy  go  up  the  broad  aisle,  saying 
the  Psalm  Domini  est  terra  (xxiv.)  after  the  manner  of  a  Song  of  De- 
grees— the  bishop  repeating  one  verse  and  the  clergy  another.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind,  that  the  Psalms  were  written  for  such  use ;  and 
so  were  employed  in  our  Saviour's  time,  as  well  as  afterwards  by  the 
apostles. 

II. 

"  Tkis  is  the  House  of  God." 

Page  14,  strophe  2. 

The  reader  will  please  bear  in  mind  that  the  consecrated  place  in 
which  the  poem  was  to  be  delivered,  was  considered  an  apology  suffi- 
cient for  the  choice  of  a  sacred  subject.  And  if  the  spot  where  Jacob 
had  dreamed  of  angels  was  holy,  how  rather  holy  the  spot  where 
Christ,  "  seen  of  angels,'9  is  present,  whenever  two  or  three  are  ga- 
thered in  his  name,  from  day  to  day,. and  from  year  to  year; — not  to 
speak  of  the  altar  (Heb.  xiii.  10)  where  '-before  our  eyes  Jesus  Christ 
is  evidently  set  forth  crucified  among  us,"  (Gal.  iii.  1,)  as  often  as  we 
show  forth  the  Lord's  death,  until  he  come.  Where  is  the  spirit  of  un- 
sophisticated humanity  ! — "  And  Jacob  awaked  out  of  his  sleep,  and 
he  said,  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  place ;  and  I  knew  it  not.  And  he 
was  afraid,  and  said,  How  dreadful  is  this  place!  This  is  none  other 
but  the  house  of  God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven."  (Gen.  xxviii. 
E* 


54  ATHANASION. 

16,  17.)  It  will  be  seen  by  referring  to  the  passage,  that  thereupon 
Jacob  consecrated  the  spot  by  a  ceremony,  and  gave  it  a  name — 
Bethel, — the  House  of  God — the  name  we  commonly  give  to  churches 
now. 


III. 

"For  he  is  full  of  God." 

Page  14,  strophe  3. 

What'?  Know  ye  not  that  your  body  is  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  which  is  in  you,  which  ye  have  of  God !     (1  Cor.  vi.  19.) 

Know  ye  not  your  own  selves  how  that  Jesus  Christ  is  in  you, 
except  ye  be  reprobates  !     (2  Cor.  xiii.  5.) 


IV. 

"  The  pearl  drops  of  salvation"  fyc. 

Page  15,  strophe  3. 

There  are  two  famous  instances  of  the  extraordinary  gift  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  which,  being  wholly  special,  and  one  in  their  nature,  are  not  to 
be  taken  into  account,  in  considering  baptism  as  the  ordinary  means  of 
this  grace.  1.  On  the  day  of  Pentecost  the  apostles  and  other  Jews 
were  baptized  "with  the  Holy  Ghost  and  with  fire,"  as  Christ  had 
foretold;  and  2.  In  the  case  of  Cornelius,  the  miracle  was  repeated,  to 
assure  the  church  of  the  possibility  of  Gentiles  also  being  partakers  of 
the  Holy  Ghost.  I  say  repeated,  because  the  gift  of  tongues  followed 
in  the  same  way.  This  extraordinary  interference  of  God  in  their  be- 
half was  assurance  for  the  future  baptism  of  Gentiles,  as  St.  Peter  im- 
mediately inferred.  See  Acts  x.  47.  In  both  cases,  however,  baptism 
followed. 

No  churchman  will  charge  me,  here,  with  saying  too  much,  when  he 
remembers  the  language  of  the  Ritual — "  Sanctify  this  water  to  the 
mystical  washing  away  of  sin."  So  I  have  to  do  chiefly  with  those  of 
my  readers  who  may  not  know  the  warrant  of  Holy  Scripture,  with 
which  the  Church  so  speaks.  And  with  their  permission  the  subject 
shall  be  treated  with  the  earnestness  demanded  by  a  matter  so  impor- 


ATHANASION.  55 

tant,  especially  as  I  know  that  many  desire  information  on  this  point, 
and  as  I  am  bound  to  give  it,  as  their  servant  in  the  ministry  of  the 
Gospel. 

Let  us  notice,  then,  St.  John  iii.  3,  et  seq. : 

"Except  a  man  be  born  again"  &c. — Jesus  Christ. 

"  Hovj  can  a  man  be  born  again,"  &cc. — Nicodemus. 

"Except  a  man  be  born  of  water  and  of  the  Spirit"  &c. — Jesus 
Christ. 

"How  can  these  things  be?' — Nicodemus. 

In  discussing  these  words,  the  author  will  be  pardoned  for  referring 
with  admiration  and  delight  to  an  article  in  the  Biblical  Repository 
(July,  1839)  from  the  pen  of  a  beloved  and  venerated  Presbyterian  critic, 
from  whom  to  differ  in  any  thing  is  to  him  the  source  of  sorrow  and  of 
tears. 

On  the  phrases  "born  of  God,"  and  "born  again,"  the  author  of  the 
criticism  says: 

"To  be  born  again,  is  better  expressed  by  the  term  regenerated." — p.  185. 

I  shall  take  it  for  granted  my  reader  will  allow  this  criticism. 

When  Nicodemus  asks,  therefore,  "how  can  a  man  be  born  again" 
and  the  Redeemer  answers,  "be  born  of  water  and  of  the  Spirit,"  I 
would  suggest,  with  deference,  that  baptismal  regeneration  is  asserted  at 
once.  For,  let  Nicodemus  make  the  substitution  which  the  criticism 
supposes  was  the  Saviour's  word — he  asks,  "how  can  a  man  be  re- 
generated?"— and  he  is  answered,  "of  water,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 
But  concerning  the  phrases  bom  of  God,  and  born  again,  the  article 
continues : 

"We  propose  the  substituted  phrases  begotten  of  God,  and  begotten 
from  above;  and  for  that  in  1  Peter  i.  23,  (dvayeyewrifxsvos.)  rendered 
being  bom  again,  we  prefer  being  regenerated '"  &c. — ib.  Also,  "  To  be 
bom  again,  is  better  expressed  by  the'  term  regenerated.  When,  how- 
ever, the  word  avcodev  is  rendered  again,  we  object  that  the  kss  is  taken 
for  the  greater,  and  the  worse  for  the  better.  Its  proper  meaning,  when 
connected  with  the  subject  of  regeneration,  is  from  above;  which  is  also 
a  richer  and  more  lucid  expression,  showing  the  source,  the  paternity,  the 
divinity,  of  the  great  change ;  and  showing  as  well,  by  necessaiy  impli- 
cation, its  grandeur,  importance,  and  celestial  excellence." — ib. 

If  begetting  from  above,  then,  is  the  true  idea,  the  acts  of  the  recipi- 
ent's mind,  namely,  Prnitcnre  and  Faith,  are  not  the  regeneration.  The 
Church  agrees  with  the  dissenter,  that  repentance  and  belief  are  neces- 


56  ATHANASION. 

sary— yes,  indispensable.  The  question  then  arising  is,  Wlien  does  the 
begetting  fro  m  above  take  place  1  And  howl  Is  it  on  the  instant  of  the 
first  emotions  of  penitence — and  undefinably,  uncertainly,  dubiously,  and 
never  to  be  considered  as  having  certainly  taken  place  1  Or  has  Christ 
instituted  a  sacrament — not  a  mere  ceremonial,  but  a  sacrament — to  which 
the  penitent  must  come  to  receive  this  begetting  from  above,  with  the  cer- 
taint ii  that,  if  he  is  not  trifling,  he  does  receive  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  is 
by  a  visible  sign  and  seal  of  an  invisible  grace  made  "a  member  of 
Christ,  a  child  of  God,  and  an  inheritor  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven !" 
In  other  words,  is  he  begotten  of  water  and  the  Spirit — or  has  water ',  or 
baptism,  nothing  to  do  at  all  with  the  operation,  except  as  a  ceremony 
significant  of  what  has  been  done! 

Popular  theology  decides,  that  as  soon  as  a  man  is  penitent,  and 
believes,  he  is  regenerate  ; 

The  Church,  that  he  is  in  a  state  to  receive  regeneration,  but  that 
Christ  has  been  pleased  to  appoint  a  means  for  that  end,  which  must 
be  sought  in  order  to  obtain  it. 

Which  opinion  has  the  warrant  of  Scripture? 

If  the  word  regeneration  implies  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  the  gift  of 
sand ificali on,  or  begetting  from  above,  it  will  easily  appear  which  opi- 
nion is  right  from  the  following  examples  : 

St.  Paul  passed  days  and  nights  in  penitence,  faith,  and  p?'ayer. 
Whether  he  was  yet  in  a  state  of  salvation,  man  must  not  decide,  since 
God  has  not  revealed;  but  one  thing  is  certainly  revealed: — the  sacra- 
ment of  baptism  had  to  intervene  for  the  remission  of  sins  and  the  gift 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  For  we  read  in  Acts  ix.  17,  that  Ananias  said, 
"the  Lord  hath  sent  me,  that  thou  mightest  receive  thy  sight,  and  be 
filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost."  And  in  the  parallel  passage,  Acts  xxii. 
16,  we  find  that  he  did  not  receive  his  sight  in  baptism,  but  before  bap- 
tism; while,  after  that.  Ananias  urged  immediate  baptism  for  the  spiritu- 
al benefit.  "  One  Ananias  came  unto  me,  and  stood  and  said  unto  me, 
Brother  Saul,  receive  thy  sight.  And  the  same  hour  I  looked  up  upon 
him ;  and  lie  said,  the  God  of  our  fathers  hath  chosen  thee,  &c,  .... 
and  now  why  larrirst  thou  ?  Arise  and  be  baptized,  and  wash  away  thy 
sins,  calling  on  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

One  would  think  this  decisive;  at  least  Bucer  gives  it  up.  "In 
which  words,'  says  he,  ';  there  is  ascribed  to  baptism  the  effect  of  remit- 
ting or  washing  away  of  sins." 

Now,  even  John  Baptist's  baptism  was  for  the  remission  of  sins;  but 


ATHANASIOX.  57 

he  testified  that  Christ's  should  be  more  glorious,  as  it  should  be  at- 
tended with  the  gift  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Now,  take  a  passage  from 
St.  Paul's  acts,  as  well  as  from  his  experience.  rIn  the  xixth  chapter  of 
Acts  we  read  that  St.  Paul  came  to  Ephesus,  a  heathen  city,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  there  certain  who  believed.  But  doubtful  whether 
they  had  been  baptized  or  not  in  that  far  region,  he  asks  them,  "  Have 
ye  received  the  Holy  Ghost  since  ye  believed?"  They  answered, 
u  We  have  not  so  much  as  heard  whether  there  be  any  Holy  Ghost," 
yet,  they  were  disciples  of  John.who  expressly  foretold  the  Holy  Ghost, 
when  he  preached  the  baptism  of  repentance :  so  they  must  have  known 
of  a  Holy  Spirit  ;  and  commentators  explain  the  passage  most  clearly, 
by  making  it  read  in  this  sense:  "We  have  not  so  much  as  heard 
here,  in  our  remote  region,  whether  there  be  any  Holy  Ghost  yet 
given;'''  i.e.  we  have  not  so  much  as  heard  of  the  coming  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  I  said  St.  Paul  was  doubtful  of  their  baptism ;  and  this  his 
answer  shows.  He  knew  not  that  they  were  John's  disciples,  or 
whose  disciples  they  were.  He  only  knew,  that  if  baptized,  they  had 
received  the  Holy  Ghost  ;  and  so  he  answers,  "Unto  what,  then,  were 
ye  baptized!"  "And  they  said  unto  John's  baptism,"  i. e.  unto  a  bap- 
tism that  did  not  include  the  gift  of  the  Holy  Spirit:  for,  "  Then  said 
Paul — John  verily  baptized  with  the  baptism  of  repentance,  saying  unto 
the  people,  that  they  should  believe  on  him  which  should  come  after 
him,"  (who  should  "baptize  with  the  Holy  Ghost"):  and  then  he 
baptized  them ;  and,  as  his  own  language  proves,  baptized  them  with 
the  Holy  Spirit,  "in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus."  And  because 
there  was  in  those  days  an  extraordinary  gift  also  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
which  in  this  case,  and  in  the  case  of  the  Samaritans,  followed  confir- 
mation, or  the  laying  on  of  apostolic  hands,  there  is  no  invalidation  of 
the  ordinary  gift  in  baptism,  any  more  than  the  additional  grace  now-a- 
days  conferred  in  confirmation  obliterates  the  original  grace  of  "the 
begetting  from  above." 

So,  then,  when  JNicodemus  asks  "  how  can  these  things  be,"  he  is 
evidently  hearing  something  mystical  indeed;  but  the  viewless  wind 
comes  whistling  along  as  he  talks  in  the  cool  night  with  the  Redeemer! 
He  sees  nothing,  but  there  is  certainly  an  outward  visible  sign,  or  an 
audible  one  at  least.  There  is  a  waving  of  his  fringed  robe,  a  rustling 
of  the  forest  leaves.  There,  Nicodemus,  says  the  Saviour,  is  it  more 
mysterious  than  thatl  Something  has  evidently  come,  and  gone — 
viewlessly,  yet  with  great  power:  you  see  some  outward  phenomena, 


58  ATHANASION. 

and  hear  the  sound  thereof,  but  can  tell  nothing  more  than  that  it  is 
there.  So  is  the  begetting  of  which  1  told  you.  You  see  the  washing 
of  water,  but  not  the  operation  of  the  Spirit,  which  comes  with  the  bap- 
tism. Vicwlessly,  however,  the  work  is  done.  "  So  is  every  one  that  is 
begotten  from  above" 

Now,  because  this  expression,  begetting  from  above,  is  so  lucid,  and 
so  harmonious  with  the  Catholic  view  of  Regeneration,  I  desire  to  add 
from  Catholic  divines  some  passages  corroborative  of  the  beautiful  and 
interesting  remarks  on  avcodev,  which  I  have  borrowed  from  a  prominent 
Presbyterian  periodical.  Here  let  me  say,  what  ought  to  be  unneces- 
sary, that  Catholic  opinions  and  Catholic  theology  are  the  opinions 
"  which  always,  every-where,  and  by  all"  in  the  Church,  have  been  con- 
ceded and  allowed.  Hence  to  be  a  Catholic,  is  to  be  as  far  from  being 
a  Papist  as  Paradise  is  different  from  Purgatory.  For  the  following 
quotations  I  am  indebted  to  the  research  of  Dr.  Pusey,  who  in  his  great 
work  on  Regeneration  takes  the  same  view  of  aixoQev.  I  desire  to  in- 
sert, however,  that  for  any  other  coincidences  which  may  exist  between 
my  remarks  and  the  work  of  that  eminent  divine,  I  am  not  indebted  to 
him ;  having  only  partly  examined  his  learned  but  very  deep  lucubra- 
tions. If  I  have  the  hajipiness  to  have  come  to"  any  of  the  conclusions 
of  that  eminent  scholar,  it  is  only  a  proof  that  honest,  ardent,  and  indus- 
trious inquiry  after  Truth,  will  lead  the  unlearned  student  of  the  ora- 
cles of  God  to  the  same  divine  illumination,  which,  after  all,  the 
wisest  must  seek  in  conformity  to  the  universal  rule — "the  meek  will 
he  guide  in  judgment,  and  the  meek  will  he  teach  his  way." 

Theophylact,  commenting  on  the  phrases  in  review,  says: 

"  Since  Nicodemus  had  a  low  notion  of  Christ,  that  he  was  a  teach- 
er, and  God  was  with  him,  the  Lord  says  to  him,  '  it  was  to  be  expected 
that  you  should  have  such  conceptions  of  me ;  for  not  as  yet  have  you 
been  born  from  above  i  i.  e.  the  spiritual  birth  of  God  {Ik  6eov).  For  the 
birth,  through  baptism,  illumining  the  soul,  enables  the  person  to  see;  i.e. 
to  perceive  the  kingdom  of  God;  i.e.  the  Son  of  God." 

So  also  before  Theophylact,  the  great  Origen  says: 

11  'avudev  signifies  both  again,  and  from  above;  but  here,  since  he  who 
is  baptized  by  Jesus  is  baptized  in  the  Holy  Spirit,  it  must  be  under- 
stood not  as  again,  but  from  above."     (Lib.  v.  in  Ep.  ad  Romanos,  §  8.) 

So  the  ancient  Greek  Liturgy  has: 

"Thou  hast  granted  us  the  regeneration,  from  above,  through  water 
and  the  Spirit."     The  words  are,  rhv  avuBev  avaycwrjaiv ;  where  again  is 


ATHANASION.  59 

an  absurd  translation  of  avodev — just  as  in  English  regeneration  from 
above  makes  sense,  but  regeneration  again  nonsense. 

In  all  this  the  opinion  of  the  Biblical  Repository  is  fully  sup- 
ported in  its  remarks  on  the  phrase  "born  again."  But  it  will  be 
observed  how  that  eloquent  passage  differs  from  these  ancient  di- 
vines, in  saying  nothing  of  baptism,  whereas  their  argument  most 
innocently  takes  it  for  granted ;  for,  as  Judicious  Hooker  boldly 
avows,  "  Of  all  the  ancients,  there  is  not  one  to  be  named  that  ever 
did  otherwise  expound  or  allege  the  place  (St.  John  iii.)  than  as  im- 
plying external  baptism."  The  denial  of  sacramental  regeneration, 
therefore,  is  scarce  three  hundred  years  old.  And  here  it  may  be  well  to 
remark,  that,  as  Bucer  confesses  it  in  the  case  of  St.  Paul,  so  Calvin 
(magister  ipse  !)  allows  the  reference  to  baptism  in  the  very  important 
passage  from  St.  Paul  to  Titus  (iii.  5),  "he  saved  us,  by  the  washing 
of  regeneration,  and  renewing  of  the  Holy  Ghost."  What  shall  be 
answered  to  St  Peter's  assertion  also,  in  his  first  epistle  (iii.  21), 
speaking  of  the  ark,  "wherein  few,  that  is,  eight  souls,  were  saved  by 
water.  The  like  figure  whereunto  even  baptism  doth  also  now  save  us  P 
How  does  it  save  us  1  St.  Peter  answers  (vide  loc),  that  it  is  not  by 
the  unspiritual  part — the  washing  of  the  body,  but  by  its  spiritual  part — 
the  remission  of  sins;  and  clothing  in  Christ's  righteousness,  which  it 
imparts:  the  ability  to  meet  God  in  judgment,  as  "washed,  sanctified, 
and  justified,"  with  "the  answer  of  a  good  conscience." 

Obj.  Are  we  to  understand,  then,  that  a  baptized  child,  who  grows 
up  a  profligate,  is  saved  ? 

Ans.  Who  ever  dreamed  of  such  a  thing'?  He  was  in  a  state  of  sal- 
vation, from  which  he  has  willingly  plucked  himself  away,  "as  Esau, 
who  for  one  morsel  of  meat  sold  his  birthright."  (Heb.  xii.  16.)  For 
fifteen  hundred  years  there  is  no  instance  of  any  denial  of  this  doctrine ; 
and  if  it  is  now-a-days  denied  so  constantly,  is  not  the  phenomenon  to 
be  accounted  for  by  that  feature  of  modern  theology  which  denies  the 
possibility  of  falling  from  grace  I  It  does  certainly  bear  against  the 
doctrine  of  the  necessary  perseverance  of  the  saints.  Yet  before  so 
solemn  and  great  a  doctrine  is  rejected  in  behalf  of  a  favourite  theory, 
were  it  not  better  to  take  example  of  old  Pelagius  1  It  would  have  been 
a  great  relief  to  him  to  have  been  told  that  Scripture  made  nothing  more 
of  baptism  than  an  outward  ceremony.  Had  he  been  able  to  assert  the 
un-regenerating,  un-remitting,  nature  of  baptism,  with  any  show  of 


60  ATIIANASION. 

scriptural  or  patristical  authority,  lie  would  have  been  able  to  rebut  the 
powerful  batteiy  of  St.  Augustine,  without  the  miserable  shifts  to  which 
he  was  driven  to  explain  away  original  sin;  getting  infants  to  eternal 
life,  by  their  own  innocency,  not  to  the  kingdom  of  Heaven,  by  the  merits 
of  Jesus  Christ,  blotting  out  their  sinfulness  in  baptism.  No  one  had 
ever  heard  of  not  baptizing  infants,  Pelagius  allowed:  and  baptism  was 
regeneration,  he  could  not  deny;  and  without  being  bom  of  water  and 
the  Spirit,  no  one  could  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven,  Christ  had  as- 
serted. He  therefore  distinguished  between  eternal  life  and  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven,  and  asserted  that  unbaptized  infants  might  have  the 
former,  although  not  the  latter.  To  such  meddling  with  the  unseen 
and  inscrutable  ways  of  God,  who  teaches  us  to  trust  him  where  he  has 
not  revealed  himself,  Pelagius  was  driven.  But  he  never  dreamed  of 
cutting  the  knot,  by  denying  the  regeneration  of  baptism. 

But  St.  Augustine  is  an  example  more  in  point,  and  more  ad,  homi- 
nem.  He  was  the  first  who  maintained  the  views  of  Predestination, 
which  are  supposed  to  involve  the  Indefectibility  of  the  Saints.  Any 
one  who  wants  to  see  this  settled  beyond  all  answer,  will  find  it  proved 
in  Mr.  Faber's  luminous  and  most  satisfactory  work,  on  the  Primitive 
Doctrine  of  Election.  Yet,  ruinous  as  the  Catholic  Doctrine  was,  to  his 
theory,  he,  modestly  enough,  modified  the  theory  to  suit  it ;  but  never 
dreamed  of  advancing  in  its  place  an  alteration  of  the  Faith,  to  suit  his 
theory;  for  the  whole  world  had  no  such  doctrine,  "  neither  the 
Churches  of  God."  Against  Pelagius  he  pushed  the  truth,  with  the 
force  of  a  battering-ram  :  and  while  he  held  the  necessary  perseverance  of 
the  Elect,  confessed,  that  it  was  evident  that  many  of  the  non-elect  were 
regenerate.  To  such,  said  he,  God  gives  every  grace,  except  the  grace 
of  perseverance!  "God  of  our  fathers,  what  is  man!"  To  what  im- 
peachment of  the  divine  justice  and  mercy,  has  not  theory  carried  those 
who  speculate  beyond  what  is  written!  and  yet  how  strongly  fixed  in 
God's  word,  and  the  Faith  of  the  Church,  must  Baptismal  Regenera- 
tion have  been;  when,  without  a  dream  of  overturning  it,  the  great 
bishop  of  Hippo,  in  his  agony  to  break  from  his  painful  position,  could 
rather  hope  for  successful  escape  through  the  brightest  attributes  of 
God!  However  skillfully  he  may  have  fancied  that  he  healed  the 
breach,  and  covered  over  this  sad  work,  the  Church  then,  as  now,  re- 
garded his  theory  itself  as  a  novelty;  and  the  alternative  into  which  it 
drove  him  as, — if  not  the  death  of  Samson, — at  least  the  shorn  Strength 
of  Augustine. 


ATHANASION.  61 

It  is  easy  when  one  has  apostatized,  to  say — "Oh,  but  he  was  never 
regenerate"  and  so  to  keep  the  doctrine  of  the  perseverance  of  the 
Saints.  But  the  trouble  is,  no  one  ever  thought  of  that  expedient,  till 
very  lately.  Those  who  held  the  doctrine  of  Perseverance,  answered 
with  Augustine,  "  Ah,  he  was  not  one  of  the  Elected  to  everlasting  life, 
and  though  we  cannot  deny  that  he  was  regenerate  in  holy  baptism, 
yet  he  plainly  received  not  the  grace  of  perseverance."  Such  con- 
strained and  painful  talk  in  a  circle,  naturally  found  at  last  a  tangent  by 
which  to  shoot  off.  The  meaning  of  regeneration  was  changed :  but 
Nota  Bene,  it  took  a  durance  vile  of  a  thousand  years,  to  convince  the 
prisoners  that  the  relief  was  not  more  desperate  than  the  bondage. 
Would  it  not  be  better,  however,  to  stay  where  St.  Augustine  left  it;  than 
by  another  effort  at  consistency,  to  alter,  what  has  been  shown  to  be  the 
words  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  unbroken  testimony  of  the  Church 
of  God,  in  all  her  commentaries,  liturgies,  homilies,  confessions  and 
prayers  for  fifteen  hundred  years,  from  St.  Paul,  and  St.  Peter,  Ignatius 
Polycarp,  and  even  Augustine  himself  down  to  the  very  divines  who  met 
at  Westminster  !  For  now  hear  the  Presbyterian  Confession  of  Faith 
(chap.  28th,)  c:  Baptism  is  a  sacrament  of  the  New  Testament,  ordained 
by  Jesus  Christ,  not  only  for  the  solemn  admission  of  the  party  bap- 
tized into  the  visible  Church,  but  also  to  be  unto  him  a  sign  and  seal  of 
the  covenant  of  grace,  of  his  ingrafting  into  Christ,  of  regeneration,  of 
remission  of  sins,  and  of  his  giving  up  unto  Gor>,  through  Jesus  Christ, 
to  walk  in  newness  of  life."  Hear  also  the  Westminster  Confession 
(quest.  165)  "  Baptism  is  a  sacrament  of  the  New  Testament  wherein 
Christ  hath  ordained  the  washing  with  water,  in  the  name  of  the  Fa- 
ther^ and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  to  be  a  sign  and  seal  of  in- 
grafting into  himself,  of  remission  of  sins,  by  his  blood,  and  regeneration 
by  his  Spirit,  of  adoption  and  resurrection  unto  everlasting  life ;  and 
whereby  the  parties  baptized  are  solemnly  admitted  into  the  visible 
Church,  and  enter  into  an  open  and  professed  engagement  to  be  wholly, 
and  only  the  Lord's." 

I  trust  this  ultima  ratio  will  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  those  of  my  readers 
for  whom  I  have  felt  bound  to  write  this  tedious  note,  that  in  justice 
to  the  Church,  there  should  be  no  more  charges  of  Popery  against  her 
Baptismal  Office,  until  their  own  confession  and  catechism  are  purged. 
I  would  rather  say — I  hope  that  some  who  remain  among  dissenters 
chiefly  on  account  of  that  Office,  will  see  that  consistency  at  least  does 
not  oblige  them  to  stay  where  they  are. 

F 


62  ATHANASION. 

It  is  here  to  be  noticed  that  there  are  not  two  kinds  of  baptism — there 
can  be  but  one.  The  infant  receives  baptism  on  the  same  terms  as  the 
adult :  only,  as  God  has  been  pleased  most  mysteriously  to  connect 
child  with  parent,  in  a  sinful  nature,  He  is  pleased  to  extend  to  the 
children  also,  the  benefits  of  the  parent's  Faith,  and  spiritual  nature. 
The  faculties  and  perceptions  of  children  we  know  nothing  of,  only  that 
they  can  "  believe  in  Christ"  (St.  Mark  ix.  42.) — and  that  "  it  is  not 
his  will  that  one  of  them  should  perish."  (St.  Mark  xviii.  14.)  Their 
professions  are  made  by  sponsors,  not  for  them,  but  in  their  name ;  and 
the  benefit  of  baptism  is  bestowed ;  which,  like  their  parents,  they  must 
retain  on  terms  of  daily  penitence  and  faith,  or  risk,  and  perhaps  lose 
forever. 

And,  because  I  have  often  been  asked  certain  well-meant  but  most 
irrelevant  inquiries,  concerning  the  passage  under  review  (Strophe  3) 
as  it  occurs  in  the  poem,  suffer  me,  gentle  reader,  explicitly  to  answer 
them  once  for  all,  even  after  so  long  a  discussion. 

The  doctrine  of  regeneration,  as  here  stated,  does  not  imply  the  effi- 
cacy of  a  mere  opus  opcratum :  for  penitence  and  faith  are  pre-requisites 
for  the  reception  of  the  Sacrament  (the  begetting  from  above),  being,  as 
St.  Chrysostom  says,  like  the  first  preparation  which  the  purple  dyers 
give  the  fabrics  to  be  coloured.  Without  this  preparation,  the  glorious 
colours  will  not  adhere  :  and  without  these  pre-requisites,  the  Sacrament 
does  not  act,  as  in  case  of  Simon  Magus. 

Yet  children  are  baptized,  because  so  the  Apostles  taught  us  to  do  : 
and  Scripture  sheweth  many  reasons.  For  children  have  original  sin 
to  be  washed  away  ;  they  have  Faith,  inasmuch  that  the  great  and  the 
icise  have  to  sink  to  the  docility,  and  trust  of  children  before  they  can  be 
baptized,  as  Christ  himself  teaches  (St.  Mark  x.  15.)  ;  penitence  they 
will  have,  all  their  lives,  if  rightly  instructed  "  from  a  child  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  which  are  able  to  make  them  wise  unto  salvation."  Be- 
sides, as  the  first  Adam  has  transmitted  a  sinful  nature,  so  the  second 
Adam  is  able  to  transmit  to  them  a  holy  nature  :  for  which  cause  they 
are  called  holy,  or  saints  (ayia),  by  St.  Paul,  (1  Cof.  vii.  14.)  Moreover, 
in  view  of  the  great  advantages  secured  to  them,  their  parents  and  spon- 
sors make  all  the  professions  in  their  name  ;  which  professions,  in  adult 
years,  they  allow  to  bo  their  own,  if  they  do  not  openly  reject  their  birth- 
right like  Esau.  The  promises  of  God  are  explicit.  "  Train  up  a 
child,"  fcc. — And,  rarely,  if  ever,  did  a  child  religiously  brought  up,  say 
deliberately,  "  Well,  I  reject  my  baptism,  and  do  not  accept  its  privi- 


ATHANASION.  63 

leges."  Yet,  if  one  does  not  venture  so  far,  he  is  most  powerfully 
pressed  with  the  fact,  that  he  admits  his  Christian  profession,  and  his 
obligation  to  walk  agreeably  thereto ;  and  also  with  the  danger  of  griev- 
ing the  Holy  Spirit.  It  was  thus,  in  early  days,  that  generation  after 
generation  grew  up  in  "  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord."  So 
Felix  Neff,  in  the  high  Alps,  was  wont  to  conduct  his  most  successful  in- 
structions. So  wherever,  consistently,  and  in  the  spirit  of  faith,  Christ- 
ian parents  act  out  this  doctrine,  their  children  are  promised,  before 
birth,  to  the  Lord,  and  grow  up  like  Samuel  and  Timothy,  sanctified 
from  earliest  years. 

Nor  does  it  teach  that  all  who  are  baptized  are  saved.  Far  otherwise. 
For  the  Spirit  may  be  grieved  away — and  quenched,  and  this  is  the 
great  incentive  by  which  the  apostles  are  always  urging  a  strong  con- 
test^ and  earnest  holiness  of  life.  Lest  we  be  cast  away — lest  having 
tasted  the  grace  of  God — having  been  made  heirs  of  eternal  life — we 
loose  ourselves  from  the  hand,  out  of  which  nothing  might  pluck  us, 
— and,  to  quote  St.  Paul,  "  draw  back  unto  perdition." 

Besides,  the  grace  given  is  initial,  and  must  grow,  to  bring  forth 
much  fruit.  It  may  die  entirely,  and  then  the  member  is  cut  off  from 
the  Vine.  When  Samuel  anointed  David,  carnal  eyes  saw  only  the 
oil  poured  on  him,  yet  says  Scripture  (1  Sam.  xvi.  15),  "  And  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  came  upon  David  from  that  day  forward."  Surely,  he 
often  resisted — almost  quenched  that  Spirit  (Ps.  51),  yet  it  came  on 
him,  when  he  was  anointed  with  oil. 

Finally,  this  doctrine  docs  make  baptism  of  some  importance  :  while 
reducing  it  to  the  popular  notion,  it  is  certainly,  a  mere  ceremony,  un- 
worthy of  a  Spiritual  dispensation.  Yet  was  it  of  sufficient  importance 
to  be  connected  with  Faith,  in  the  last  words  of  our  blessed  Redeemer, 
before  he  went  up — "  Whosoever  belie veth  and  is  baptized,  shall  be 
saved."  It  requires  all  that  dissenters  make  regeneration  to  mean,  as  a 
pre-requisite — and  then  superadds  the  begetting  from  above,  as  the  free 
gift  of  God.  And  then,  it  requires  more,  lest  the  regenerate  person 
should  receive  the  grace  of  God  in  vain.  For  there  is  no  room  for  trust 
in  past  experiences  ;  he  is  a  child,  but  he  must  see  that  he  is  now,  and 
always,  at  his  father's  board.  If  he  has  wandered,  he  is  to  return  to 
his  father  at  once,  or  be  lost  as  a  reprobate  forever:  but  he  is  never  to 
relax  his  diligence  to  make  his  calling  and  election  sure.  To  this  pur- 
port, the  exhortations  of  the  apostles  are  innumerable.  In  the  third  Of 
Galatians  is  an.  instance  ;  where  the  apostle  thus  calls  them  to  obedi- 


o-x  ATHANASION. 

ence  on  this  ground,  as  children  of  Christ,  by  faith.  u  For  as  many 
of  you  as  have  been  baptized  into  Christ,  have  put  on  Christ  j" 
yet  he  calls  these  same  persons  "foolish,"  and  asks  them  "  who  hath 
/<•  witched  you."  Yes,  in  the  next  chapter  he  says,  "And  because  ye 
are  sons,  God  hath  sent  forth  the  Spirit  of  his  Son  into  your  hearts, 
crying  Abba,  Father;"  yet  he  adds,  "  I  am  afraid  of  you,  lest  I  have 
bestowed  upon  you  labour  in  rainy 

The  standard  tract  of  Dr.  Waterland,  on  this  subject,  is  an  excellent 
reference.  The  author  of  this  poem  was  first  attracted  to  the  doctrine 
many  years  ago,  by  an  article  which  appeared  in  the  Literary  and  The- 
ological Review,  and  by  discovering  it  to  be  in  the  Westminster  Confes- 
sion. He  had  usually  explained  the  Church's  baptismal  office  before 
that,  by  referring  the  word  regenerate  to  a  simple  change  of  relation. 
But  in  a  course  of  reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  from  Genesis  to  the 
Apocalypse,  with  especial  reference  to  texts  bearing  on  this  point,  he 
came  to  the  conclusions,  which  he  afterwards  found  to  be  the  impreg- 
nable doctrine  of  the  Church  of  the  Living  God. 


V. 

"  That  great  Son  of  Sir ach's  golden  page." 

Page  16,  strophe  4. 

The  Book  of  Ecclesiasticus  is  among  the  apocryphal  writings  indeed  : 
but  it  is  nevertheless  full  of  inspiration,  for  when  did  any  other  poet 
ever  write  with  so  much  of  the  spirit  of  Scripture,  instinct  in  every  sen- 
tence. The  first  verse  of  the  chapter  is  a  glorious  echo  of  human  wis- 
dom, to  the  inspired  declaration  of  Solomon.  "  The  fear  of  the  Lord 
is  the  beginning  of  wisdom,"  says  the  proverb :  and  the  son  of  Sirach 
responds  with  the  language  of  experience.  "  All  wisdom  cometh  from 
the  Lord,  and  is  with  him  forever."  Who  shall  teach  this  forgotten 
lesson  to  the  age  of  unbelief? 


VI. 

"  Within  him  flames  a  lamp." 

Page  17,  strophe  5. 

After  v<    v  wted  (Heb.  x.  3-2.)     For  ye  were  sometimes 


ATIIANASION.  65 

darkness,  but  now  are  ye  light  in  the  Lord  ;  walk  as  children  of  light. 
(Eph.  v.  8.) 


VII. 

"Round  Tibur's  cliffy  and  Anions  leap." 

Page  17,  strophe  5. 

Now  Tivoli  and  Teverone. 

Tibur  Argeeo  positum  colono 
Sit  mecb  sedes  utinam  senecta. 

Hor.  Od.  II.  6. 

Domus  Albunese  resonantis, 
Et  prceceps  Anio,  et  Tibumi  lucus. 

Hor.  Od.  I.  7. 


VIII. 

" Leads  like  the  Sybil1  s  bough" 

Page  17,  strophe  5. 

With  which  iEneas  found  his  way  to  the  infernal  world. — iEneid  VI. 
Ibant  obscuri,  sola  sub  nocte,  per  umbram. 

IX. 

M  Nor  shall  ye  vaunt  to  me." 

Page  19,  strophe  6. 

The  effects  of  Heathen  Superstition  and  Christian  Faith,  on  the  Im- 
agination, are  here  compared,  with  reference  to  the  great  works  of  Phi- 
dias and  Angelo.     I  cannot  stop  where  Lord  Byron  doe? : 

Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway, 
Which,  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias, 
She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 

Prophecy  of  Dante. 


* 


*# 


■ 


06  ATHANASION. 

The  magnificent  patchwork  of  ivory,  gold,  and  gems,  which  set  forth 
the  Deus  Opt.  Max.,  of  Heathenism,  albeit  the  work  of  Phidias,  ap- 
pears to  me,  even  with  its  colossal  advantages,  a  less  sublime  conception 
than  the  stern  grandeur  of  Michael  Angelo's  Moses.  And  I  have  not 
scrupled  to  assert  the  superiority  of  modern  to  ancient  art.  How  could 
the  ancient  painters  be  what  Angelo  and  Raffaelle  were,  without  oil-co- 
lours, perspective  and  the  gardens  of  the  Medici,  and  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures for  subjects  !  The  antique,  to  be  sure,  overturns  the  pretensions 
of  modern  sculpture,  to  artistical  rivalry,  but  in  the  comparative  con- 
ceptions of  sublimity,  which  they  have  embodied  in  stone,  I  know  no 
marble  god,  that  equals  the  marble  man  Moses,  as  Angelo's  chisel  has 
set  him  forth. 


X. 

c<  That  doomsday  shriek"  tf*c. 

Page  19,  strophe  6. 

I  have  allowed  myself  this  conceit,  from  a  mysterious  sort  of  gratifica- 
tion, that  he  who  painted  that  Apocalypse  on  the  walls  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  should  have  been  named  from  the  Archangel,  whose  trumpet 
it  is  supposed  shall  announce  the  terrible  day !  The  majesty  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo's  works  comports  with  the  dignity  of  his  name,  while 
with  singular  felicity,  the  grace  and  ease,  the  sublime,  but  not  terrible 
attributes  of  Raifaelle's  pencil,  express  very  beautifully  the  idea  we  have 
of  him  before-hand,  from  the  name  of 

11  Raphael,  the  sociable  spirit,  that  deigned 
To  travel  with  Tobias.'5 

Milton. 


XI. 

"  Or  rived  for  struggling  art"  fyc. 

Page  19,  strophe  6. 

There  had  stood  in  Florence  for  a  hundred  years,  a  huge  block  of 
marble,  to  which  an  old  sculptor  had  essayed  to  give  the  figure  of  a 


ATHANASION.  67 

man.  He  had  failed  ;  and  there  it  stood,  a  colossal  arm,  endeavouring 
in  vain  to  struggle  out  of  the  strong  bondage  of  the  quarry.  It  was  no 
bad  emblem  of  the  condition  of  art  in  Italy,  when  Michael  Angelo  took 
it  in  hand.  Even  Leonardo  da  Vinci  had  been  dismayed  from  attempt- 
ing to  finish  it.  No  one  knew  what  had  been  the  old  artist's  design, 
and  the  trouble  was  to  make  a  body,  that  should  justify  the  position  of 
the  old  artist's  unfinished  part.  Michael  Angelo  gave  the  giant  birth, 
and  turned  out  his  wonderful  David,  a  monument  of  what  he  found  his 
art,  and  of  what  he  left  it.     Vide  Roscoe's  Pontificate  of  Leo  X. 


XII. 

"God  hid  Ms  prophet"  fyc. 

Page  19,  strophe  6. 

And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  Land  of  Moab,  over  against  the 
Beth-Peor,  but  no  man  hwweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day.  Deut 
xxxiv.  6. 


XIII. 

"  Yearn'd  for  what  ye  despise"  fyc. 

Page  22,  strophe  6. 

That  is,  a  Revelation  like  the  Gospel,  and  an  Ark  like  the  Church  of 
Christ.     For  proof  take  the  following  from  the  Phsedon  of  Plato. 

11  For  one  of  these  two  things  must  be  done :  we  must  either  learn  the 
truth  from  others,  or  find  it  out  ourselves.  If  both  ways  fail  us,  amidst 
all  human  reasons,  we  must  fix  upon  the  strongest  and  most  forcible, 
and  trust  to  that  as  to  a  ship,  while  we  pass  through  this  stormy  sea, 
and  endeavour  to  avoid  its  tempests,  until  ice  find  out  one  more  firm  and 
sure,  such  as  a  promise  or  Revelation  !  upon  which  we  may  happily 
accomplish  the  voyage  of  this  life,  as  in  a  vessel  that  fears  no  danger." 
A  consistent  Platonist  then  must  now-a-days  be  a  Catholic  Christian  ! 
The  Church's  Bible  is  the  revelation,  and  the  vessel  that  fears  no  danger \ 
is  found  almost  in  Plato's  words,  in  the  baptismal  office  : 

li  We  beseech  thee  ....  that  he,  being  delivered  from  thy  wrath, 
may  be  received  into  the  Ark  of  Christ's  Church ,-  and  being  steadfast, 


68  ATIIAXASION. 

&c.  .  .  .  may  so  pass  the  waves  of  this  troublesome  world,"  <Scc.  &c. 
Sec  Common  Prayer. 

Moreover,  in  Alcibiades  Second  : 

"  Soc.  Therefore  it  is  altogether  necessary  you  should  wait  for  some 
person  to  teach  you  how  you  ought  to  behave  yourself  both  towards  the 
gods  and  men. 

"  Alcib.  And  when  will  that  time  come,  Socrates  !  and  who  is  he  that 
will  instruct  me !  With  what  pleasure  would  I  look  upon  him. 

11  Soc.  He  will  do  it  who  takes  a"  true  care  of  you;  but  methinks,  as 
we  read  in  Homer  that  Minerva  dissipated  the  mist  that  covered  Dio- 
mede's  eyes,  and  hindered  him  from  distinguishing  God  from  man,  so 
it  is  necessary  he  should,  in  the  first  place,  scatter  the  darkness  that  co- 
vers your  soul,  and  afterwards  give  you  those  remedies  that  are  neces- 
sary to  put  you  in  a  condition  of  discerning  good  and  evil,  for  at  pre- 
sent you  know  not  how  to  make  a  difference  between  them." 

The  translations  are  not  very  elegant,  but  appear  correct.  They  are 
taken  from  an  English  third  edition  of  the  Dialogues,  with  good  notes, 
of  which  the  English  student  would  do  well  to  possess  himself.  I  am 
indebted  to  Prof.  Lewis,  of  the  University  of  New  York,  for  referring 
me  to  a  remarkable  paragraph  in  the  Republic  of  Plato,  which  really 
seems  to  set  forth  the  need  of  Divine  Grace  assisting  us,  in  almost  the 
apostolic  terms.  Vide  Rep.  Lib.  V.  pp.  218-19,  Leipzig.  See  also 
Prof.  Lewis'  Believing  Spirit. 


XIV. 

M  And  the  wing'd  soul"  <$*c. 

Page  23,  strophe  8. 

There  certainly  never  was  a  conception  that  so  fills  us  to  inebriation 
with  the  overflow  of  purest  beauty,  as  that  of  the  Psyche  of  the  ancients 
— the  Soul — with  its  sprouting  butterfly  wings,  radiant  in  naked  loveli- 
ness, yet  as  far  from  the  nudity  of  a  Venus,  as  a  seraph  is  from  Belial. 
The  chaste  intellect  of  Greece  is  displayed  in  nothing  more  than  in  this 
word  and  thought.  The  brcalh,  was  to  them  the  soul — the  animator — 
and  so  Psyche,  from  their  verb,  to  breathe.  Then,  when  they  noticed  how 
it  came,  and  went  after  a  short  stay,  they  found  only  one  thing  in  na- 
ture quite  like  it— it  was  the  Moth.     And  when  they  saw  the  Moth 


ATHAXASION.  69 

fold  up,  and  then  come  out  of  his  sepulchre  a  beautiful  Nymph,  they 
fancied  so  should  the  Soul.  And  so  in  Greek,  the  same  word  signifies 
a  butterfly,  and  the  soul.  Over  the  mouth  of  a  dead  body,  they  hung  a 
butterfly,  to  denote  that  the  Psyche  had  flown  away :  and  then,  when 
they  made  a  goddess  of  Intellectual  Beauty,  she  was  a  nymph  with 
butterfly  wings — the  Soul!  With  her,  Cupid  fell  in  love;  to  teach  us 
how  remote  from  the  gross  orgies  of  Venus,  is  the  feast  of  pure  affec- 
tion— the  love  that  binds  us  to  a  kindred  spirit — the  love  that  then  only 
is  worthy  of  the  name,  when  the  pure  uncontaminate  soul  of  its  object 
has  attracted  its  worship. 


XV. 

u  Her  holiest  altar  to  the  unknown  God." 

Page  24,  strophe  8. 

It  seemed  remarkable  that  there,  where  Plato  and  Socrates  could  go 
no  further,  St.  Paul  should  come,  and  find  that  strange  shrine  for  his 
text.  I  thank  Raffaelle  for  his  Cartoon — but  what  can  express  the 
sublimity  of  the  moment,  when,  after  so  glorious  a  succession  of 
the  Earth's  greatest  sons,  as  had  flourished  there  before  him  for  unillu- 
minated  ages,  the  time  came  at  last  when  "  Paul  stood  on  Mars  hill, 
and  said,  Ye  men  of  Athens,"  &c. 

Perhaps  I  should  apologize  for  so  many  notes  of  a  theological  turn, 
but  the  reader  will  please  remember  that  the  poem  was  published  for  a 
college,  and  will  probably  fall  into  the  hands  of  many  collegians;  and  I 
am  too  fresh  from  a  college  myself,  not  to  remember  the  dangers  of  an 
undergraduate.  Poetiy  is  generally  a  passion  with  the  Sophister,  and 
there  is  too  much  of  it  that,  availing  itself  of  the  follies  involved  in  dis- 
torted views  of  religion,  is  apt  to  lead  him  away  from  his  Christian  pri- 
vileges, and  his  glorious  inheritance.  But  truth  is  glorious,  and  save 
the  Word  of  God,  "  what  is  truth V  Little  do  I  care  what  may  be 
thought  of  my  ode,  if  I  can  only  render  it  serviceable  to  the  earthly 
happiness  and  eternal  bliss  of  one  kindred  soul,  on  whose  eye  the  light 
of  human  philosophy  is  falling  with  bewildering  witchery,  and  who 
only  needs  the  bright  shining  of  the  glorious  Gospel  to  leave  Plato  in 
his  grove,  and  Tully  in  his  villa,  and  mount  into  the  heaven  of  heavens 
with  the  blessed  Paul 


70  ATIIANASION. 


XVI. 

11  Hath  temples  that  are  miracles"  tf*c. 

Page  24,  strophe  9. 

What  else  are  the  gothic  cathedrals  1  Now-a-days,  we  task  our 
minds  to  imitate  them.  What  were  they  who  orignatedthem'?  We  build 
by  their  rules.  Who  were  they  with  whom  the  rules  were  spontaneous  1 
Morally,  the  cathedrals  are  greater  wonders  than  the  pyramids.  In 
the  next  strophe,  I  have  ventured  to  compare  their  creation  to  the  pro- 
cess of  crystallization.  Where  the  light  of  the  Gospel  shone,  they 
seemed  to  form  as  by  a  process  of  nature. 


XVII. 

11  The  star  whose  first"  tf>c. 

Page  26,  strophe  11. 

Now  when  Jesus  was  born  .  ,  .  there  came  wise  men  from  the  east. 
—St.  Matth. 


XVIII, 

•'  Then  Faith  for  her  the  studious  cloister  reared" 

Page  27,  strophe  11. 

One  who  reads  the  history  of  the  venerable  Bede,  and  of  the  ancient 
religious  houses,  can  scarcely  rejoice  that  the  noble  foundations 
which  piety  had  scattered  over  England,  were,  at  the  Reformation,  sa- 
crilegiously squandered  on  profligate  courtiers,  or  confiscated  to  the 
throne,  instead  of  being  purified,  like  the  Universities,  and  still  devoted 
to  the  glory  of  God.  How  many  abbeys  and  priories,  that  rightly  be- 
long to  the  poor  Church  in  England,  are  only  ornamental  appendages 
now  to  overgrown  baronies  !  And  the  result  is — England  is  going  fast 
to  Radicals  and  Chartists. 


ATHANASION.  71 


XIX. 

11  O'er  blest  Evangel,"  fyc. 

Page  28,  strophe  12. 

I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  representing  Alfred  as  translating  the  Gos- 
pels. I  have  seen  it  asserted  somewhere,  by  good  authority,  that  he  did 
so.  I  cannot  now  recall  it,  however,  and  so  take  refuge  behind  a  poetic 
license,  and  put  the  Evangel,  for  whatever  part  of  Scripture  he  did  trans- 
late. The  Psalter,  I  believe,  he  unquestionably  translated,  and  I  have 
adopted  the  story  that  he  founded  Oxford — though  some  contend  that 
he  only  revived  it.  I  have  called  him  honestly — England's  Solomon ;  and 
as  no  one  ever  gave  that  title  in  the  same  sincerity  to  James,  I  must  not 
be  accused  of  robbing  Peter  for  Paul.  The  reader  will  recollect  that 
he  measured  his  day  by  the  burning  of  tapers. 


XX. 

11  And  teach  our  sires  to  breathe  their  Glory  round." 

Page  28,  strophe  12. 

In  allusion  to  the  custom  of  saying  Glory  be  to  thee  oh  Lord,  when  the 
Gospel  for  the  day  is  announced  by  the  Minister. 


XXI. 

"  For  our  apostles  in  an  English  line." 

Page  30,  strophe  13. 

There  is  a  popular  error  that  Augustine  founded  the  Church  in  Eng- 
land !  Far  from  it.  It  had  been  founded  there  by  Apostles,  or  their 
immediate  successors.  At  the  Synod  of  Aries,  A.  D.  31 4,  there  were 
present  three  English  bishops,  with  a  presbyter  and  deacon.  But  the 
British  Christians  having  been  driven  inland  by  the  Saxons,  Augustine 
converted  the  Saxons,  and  subjugated  the  primitive  bishops  to  the 
bishop  of  Rome,  whose  pre-eminence,  however,   was    not,    at    that 


72  ATIIANASION, 

time,  the  wpfi  ma  u  afterwards  asserted.  The  British  bishops  wore  the 
foreign  yoke  for  937  years,  notwithstanding  there  were  not  wanting  to 
her,  bold  witnesses  against  Rome's  encroachments — such  as  WicklifFe) 
Grosteste,  and  the  Lollards.  These  encroachments  were  very  gradual, 
however;  and  as  late  as  the  11th  century  the  pope  was  not  much  felt  in 
England  : — he  had  often  been  resisted.  At  the  Reformation,  the  Church 
did  hut  return  to  her  ancient  foundation,  by  denying  the  usurped  juris- 
diction  of  the  bishop  of  Rome.  Till  this  time,  the  Romanists  and  Pu- 
ritans alike  agree  that  the  Apostolic  Succession  was  preserved.  The 
Presbyterian  divines,  at  Westminster,  asserted  that  it  had  so  come 
down  to  them,  and  none  that  had  it  not,  could  ordain.  This  they  said 
against  the  Independents:  and  to  some  who  asserted  that  the  foulness 
of  Roman  superstition  had  voided  the  authority  of  bishops  who  had 
adopted  it,  they  entreated  the  people  "  not  to  be  affrighted  by  the  bug- 
bear words  of  anti-Christian  and  popish ."  As  late  as  Cranmer  at  least, 
then,  our  foes  on  both  sides  have  yielded  the  point.  Cranmer  was 
consecrated  by  Longland,  in  15j3,  and  he  by  Warham,  in  1521.  The 
records  are  in  Lambeth,  and  other  places. 

Cranmer  consecrated  Parfcw ;  he;  Hoskin;  he,  Parker;  he,  Grindall ; 
he,  Wditgift;  he,  Bancroft;  he,  Abbot;  he,  Monlcigne ;  he,  Land ;  he, 
Wren;  he,  Sheldon;  he,  Compton;  he,  Saner oj 7 ;  he,  Trclawncy ;  he, 
Pidt-  /•;  he,  //  rring:  he,  Cornwallis ;  he,  Moore;  and  he,  bishop  White. 
the  late  Senior  of  the  American  Church.  These  few  names,  therefore — 
written  with  a  drop  of  ink — carry  back  the  succession  three  hundred 
years,  and  over.  Yet,  in  each  consecration,  from  three  to  eight  other 
bishops  assisted  in  the  laying  on  of  hands — each  of  whom  had  as 
many  more.  Four  steps  back  from  the  present  archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury— and  forty-Seven  different  bishops  are  concerned,  as  conseerators, 
of  the  twenty-sen  n,  who  consecrated  the  twelve,  who  consecrated  the  four, 
who  consecrated  him.  Yet  it  is  sometimes  asserted  that  one  failure  in 
consecration,  breaks  the  whole.  On  the  contrary ,  forty-seven  bishops — 
(each  of  whom  have  forty-seven,  four  steps  back  from  them,  if  not  more) 
— must  all  have  been  uncanonically  ordained,  to  break  the  succession. 
Every  hundred  years,  therefore,  lessens  the  possibility-  oi"  defect:  and 
what  that  possibility  is,  let  schoolboys  cipher  out.  if  they  can.  Better 
trust  in  Him,  who  sent  apostles  into  all  binds  and  promised  to  be  with 
to  the  end  of  the  world."  See  the  admirable  little  Tract  of  Ptr- 
cirtd  on  Aj-  n        SSion, 


ATHANASION.  73 


XXII. 

11  Thy  pure  Ideal  mitred  saint  of  Cloyne .'" 

Page  30,  strophe  14. 

Berkeley,  bishop  of  Cloyne — his  Ideal  theory,  and  his  beautiful 
poem  "  On  planting  Letters  in  America" — 

"Westward  the  Star  of  Empire  takes  its  way  ;" 

his  high  encomium  from  Pope, 

"  To  Berkeley,  every  virtue  under  heaven  ;" 

and  his  indefatigable  efforts  in  behalf  of  education  in  America,  aretoC 
well  known  to  need  more  than  reference.  But  his  benefactions  to  Yale 
College  are  not  so  widely  heard  of:  though  a  Berkeleian  Premium  is 
annually  awarded  still,  from  one  of  his  foundations;  and  a  frigid  com- 
pliment is  paid  him  in  the  catalogue  of  the  Trumbull  Gallery.  In  the 
picture-gallery,  hangs  an  old  portrait  of  the  bishop  (then  Dean  Berke- 
ley) and  his  family.  The  dean  is  in  his  cassock — and  in  plain  Eng- 
lish, looks  out  of  place  in  that  atmosphere.  There  is  an  organ  at  New- 
port, in  the  Church  there,  which  he  gave :  but  he  brought  it  out  for  the 
college  which  he  designed  to  found.  He  offered  it  to  the  Congrega- 
tionalists  (but  whether  of  Yale  or  not,  I  cannot  say,)  but  they  refused  the 
box  o:  whistles,  as  a  miserable  "  Popish  Invention."  So  the  Church  at 
Newport  asked  for  it  and  got  it.  I  could  not  but  smile,  however,  when 
at  Hartford,  to  be  waked  from  a  doze  one  evening,  by  the  roar  of  an 
organ,  which  iEolus  himself  seemed  to  be  blowing  :  when  on  inquiry 
I  learned  that  it  came  from  the  Congregational  meeting-house,  which 
was  next  door  to  my  hotel.  I  believe  the  use  of  organs  was  originally 
one  of  the  evils  "too  grievous  to  be  borne,"  by  which  the  Puritans  jus- 
tified their  schism.  Now,  I  learn,  they  are  common  throughout  Con- 
necticut, among  all  classes  of  dissenters ;  and  that  Chaunts  and  An- 
thems are  frequently  performed  in  their  choirs.  I  annex  an  extract  from 
Baldwin's  History  of  Yale  College : 

"  But  the  most  beneficent  benefactor  of  the  College,  at  this  period, 
was  the  celebrated  Dr.  George  Berkeley,  then  Dean  of  Derby,  in  Ireland, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  1732."  (He  gave  them  his  farm  in  Rhode 
Island,  an  acknowledgment  of  which  follows.)     "But  a  more  valuable 

G 


74  ATHANASION. 

donation  made  to  the  College,  by  their  disinterested  benefactor,  Dr. 
Berkeley,  was  a  collection  of  books — the  finest  (as  President  Clap  says) 
that  ever  came  together  at  one  time  into  America."  According  to  the 
history  of  Mr.  Baldwin,  there  were,  in  all,  a  thousand  volumes,  valued 
at  four  hundred  pounds  sterling — most  of  which  was  from  the  Dean's 
own  pocket,  and  the  rest  he  obtained  from  his  friends.  There  is  some- 
thing noble  in  this,  contrasted  with  the  treatment  shown  to  Mr.  Rector 
Cutler,  some  time  before ;  who,  for  becoming  a  Churchman,  received 
this  gracious  message, 

"  Voted,  That  the  Trustees,  in  faithfulness  to  the  trust  reposed  in 
them,  do  excuse  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cutler  from  all  further  service  as  Rector 
of  Yale  College." 

It  was  right  perhaps  that  he  should  be  no  longer  Rector — but  why 
such  a  way  of  doing  it  ]     Further, 

"  Voted,  That  upon  just  ground  of  suspicion  of  the  Rector's  or  Tu- 
tor's inclination  to  Arminian  or  prelaiical  principles,  a  meeting  of  the 
Trustees  shall  be  called,  as  soon  as  may  be,  to  examine  into  the 
case" ! ! ! 


XXIII. 

11  Mid  isles  that  beckorfd  to  a  continent." 

Page  31,  strophe  14. 

Bishop  Berkeley,  like  Columbus,  approached  the  continent  of  America 
by  the  way  of  the  isles.  He  first  went  to  Bermuda ;  and  so  he  was 
led  to  prefer  New  England. 


XXIV. 

"  When  the  adoption ,"  fyc. 

Page  32,  strophe  15. 

"Waiting  for  the  adoption,  to  wit,  the  redemption  of  our  body." 
Rom.  viii.  23. 

I  am  indebted  to  an  eminent  scholar  for  the  suggestion  of  an  allusion 
here  to  the  Roman  custom  of  presenting  a  new-born  child  to  its  father, 
for  his  acknowledgment  and  embrace.     If  deformed,  he  might  destroy 


ATHANASION.  75 

it,  by  the  Laws  of  the  Twelve  Tables — or  he  might  reject  it,  as  not  his 
own.  We,  with  every  creature,  are  described  as  groaning  and  travail- 
ing to  the  birth,  "the  glorious  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God."  God  grant 
we  be  not  rejected  at  the  last,  through  Christ  our  Lord  ! 


XXV. 

"  That  deep  in  blood"  <$*c. 

Page  34,  strophe  17. 

The  painter  David  used  to  stimulate  the  revolutionary  proscriptions, 
with  the  very  professional  motto— "  We  must  grind  more  red  paint." 

XXVI. 

"  In  that  old  Elder's  dread  Apocalypse." 

Page  34,  strophe  17. 

I  have  here  unintentionally  favoured  what  I  find  to  be  Mr.  Croly's 
interpretation  of  the  ninth  chapter  of  the  Revelation  of  St.  John,  as  pro- 
phetic of  the  French  Revolution.  It  is  a  striking  coincidence  at  least : 
let  doctors  decide  whether  it  be  a  direct  prophecy.  I  have  adopted  it 
by  accommodation.  The  scorpions  Robespierre  and  his  triumvirs — and 
the  quick  succession  of  the  Revolutionary  armies  ;  their  flying  artillery; 
their  long  crests — like  the  hair  of  women ;  their  sound,  as  of  chariots  of 
many  Iwrses  running  to  battle ;  and  last,  their  king,  whose  name  in  tlie 
Hebreio  tongue  is  Abaddon,  but  in  the  Greek,  tongue  hath  his  name  Apol- 
lyon — all  these  are  fearfully  like  !  Cyrus  was  named  beforehand  by  in- 
spiration— why  not  Napoleon ! 

XXVII. 

"  In  Reason's  age,  from  pure  Philosophic  I" 

Page  36,  strophe  17. 

Paine's  "Age  of  Reason,"  and  Voltaire  with  his  soi-disant  philoso- 
phers, are  the  continual  sublime  and  ridiculous  of  the  whole  Revolution 
— sublime  in  anticipations,  absurd  in  results.  I  accommodate  the  old 
spelling  of  some  words  to  the  verse. 


76  ATHANASION. 


XXVIII. 


"  Is  gone  like  Summer's  day." 

Page  38,  strophe  19. 

Summer  day  is  ne'er  so  long 
But  at  last  it  vergeth  to  even-song. 

Old  Proverb. 

Even  my  Notes,  gentle  reader,  are  coming  to  an  end. 


XXIX. 

11  Bun,  run  to  your  sweet  MotJier"  fyc. 

Page  46,  strophe  25. 

The  Gospel  bids  us  become  as  little  children ,  and  then  commits  us 
to  the  Church,  our  Mother.  Within  her  bounds  we  are  free  to  range  : 
to  pass  them  is  not  freedom,  but  foolhardiness  and  ruin.  Let  us  then 
be  all  that  mind  can  be  on  Earth :  and  then  humble  ourselves,  to  be  ex- 
alted. Newton,  in  his  very  greatness,  sunk  to  a  child,  because  he  alone 
could  see  how  much  greater  was  his  God  !  The  Christian  is  a  child 
in  Faith,  and  humility,  even  when  he  shakes  the  world  with  his  wis- 
dom and  power.     He  feels  that  it  doth  not  yet  appear  what  he  shall  be. 

Contrast  now  this  spirit  with  the  great  swelling  words  of  modern 
"  Philosophers"  ;  and  the  intellectual  self- worship  of  some  dictators  of 
modern  rationalistic  sects.  What  pretensions  to  unfettered  faculties — 
emancipated  mind — and  lungs  inhaling  an  etherial  atmosphere  of  pure 
reason  !  But  set  one  of  these  strutting  pigmies  beside  old  Athanasius, 
or  Chrysostom,  or  Ambrose !  Giants  of  Intellect  and  Achievement — 
and  yet  children.  Men  whose  life  was  one  transcript  of  Bishop  Taylor's 
prayer — Give  us  spiritual  ivisdom,  that  we  may  discern  what  is  pleasing 
to  thee,  and  follow  what  belongs  unto  our  peace ;  and  let  the  knowledge 
and  the  love  of  God  and  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,  be  our  guide  and  our 
portion  all  our  days.    Amen. 


• 


,¥i^AL   IF 


NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED. 


m 


^trberttsement. 


To  a  majority  of  Poems  heretofore  published,  some  have  been  added,  in  this 
collection,  which  have  not  before  appeared.  Two  or  three  juvenile  productions, 
for  the  sake  of  friends  chiefly,  have  been  admitted,  for  which  the  author  would 
bespeak  all  due  allowances. 


% 


][]®©EILLA[NII£©(yj©  [F@C 


WATCHWORDS. 

I. 

We  are  living, — we  are  dwelling 
In  a  grand  and  awful  time ; 

In  an  age,  on  ages  telling, 
To  be  living — is  sublime. 

II. 

Hark  !  the  waking  up  cf  nations, 
Gog  and  Magog,  to  the  fray  ; 

Hark  !  what  soundeth,  is  Creation's 
Groaning  for  its  latter  day. 


84  WATCHWORDS. 


III. 

Will  ye  play  then !  will  ye  dally, 
With  your  music,  with  your  wine  ? 

Up  !  it  is  Jehovah's  rally  ! 

God's  own  arm  hath  need  of  thine. 

IV. 

Hark,  the  onset !  will  ye  fold  your 
Faith-clad  arms  in  lazy  lock  ? 

Up,  O  up,  thou  drowsy  soldier  ! 
Worlds  are  charging  to  the  shock. 

V. 

Worlds  are  charging — Heaven  beholding ; 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  to  fight ; 
Now,  the  blazon'd  cross  unfolding, 

On — right  onward,  for  the  right  ! 

VI. 

What !   still  hug  thy  dreamy  slumbers  ? 

Tis  no  time  for  idling  play  : 
Wreaths,  and  dance,  and  poet-numbers, 
Flout  them  !  we  must  work  to-day  ! 


WATCHWORDS.  85 

■ 

VII. 

Fear  not !  spum  the  worldling's  laughter ; 

Thine  ambition — trample  thou  ! 
Thou  shalt  find  a  long  Hereafter, 

To  be  more  than  tempts  thee  now. 

VIII. 

On !  let  all  the  soul  within  you, 

For  the  truth's  sake,  go  abroad ! 
Strike  !  let  every  nerve  and  sinew 

Tell  on  ages — tell  for  God  ! 


IX. 

Magog  leadeth  many  a  vassal ; 

Christ  his  few — his  little  ones  ; 
But  about  our  leaguer'd  castle, 

Rear  and  Vanguard  are  his  sons  ! 

X. 

Seal'd  to  blush,  to  waver  never  ; 

Cross'd,  baptized,  and  born  agen, 
Sworn  to  be  Christ's  soldiers  ever, 

Oh,  for  Christ,  at  least,  be  men  ! 


86 


LET  OUT  THY  SOUL. 


A    LENT    LAY. 


I. 

Let  out  thy  soul,  and  pray- 
Not  for  thy  home  alone  ! 

Away — in  prayer,  away  ! 

Make  all  the  world  thine  own  ! 

Let  out  thy  soul  in  prayer  ; 
Oh,  let  thy  spirit  grow  ! 

God  gives  thee  sun  and  air ; 
Let  the  full  blossom  blow  ! 

II. 

There  !  dost  thou  not  perceive 
Thy  spirit  swell  within, 

And  something  high  receive 
That  is  not  born  of  sin  ? 

Oh,  paltry  is  the  soul 
That  only  self  can  heed  !  J 


LET    OUT    THY    SOUL.  87 


Sail  outward — from  the  shoal, 
And  bourgeon,  from  the  seed  ! 

III. 

Moth  and  the  rust  consume 

The  spangled  folds  of  pride  ; 
Dry-rot  doth  eat  the  bloom, 

And  gnaw  the  wealth  we  hide  > 
The  Spirit's  selfish  care, 

Doth  die  away  the  same ; 
But  give  it  air — free  air, 

And  how  the  soul  can  flame ! 

IV. 

Yestreen  I  did  not  know 

How  largely  I  could  live ; 
But  Faith  hath  made  me  grow, 

To  more  than  Earth  can  give. 
Joy  !  for  a  heart  released 

From  littleness  and  pride  ; 
Fast  is  the  Spirit's  feast, 

And  Lent  the  soul's  high-tide. 


88 


LET    OUT    THY   SOUL, 

v. 

When  for  the  Church  1  pray'd, 

As  this  dear  Lent  began, 
My  thoughts,  I  am  afraid, 

Within  small  limits  ran. 
By  Ember-week  I  learn'd 

How  large  that  prayer  might  be, 
And  then,  in  soul,  I  burn'd 

That  all  might  pray  with  me. 

VI. 

Plead  for  the  victims  all 

Of  heresy  and  sect ; 
And  bow  thy  knees  like  Paul, 

For  all  the  Lord's  Elect ! 
Pray  for  the  Church — I  mean, 

For  Shem  and  Japhet  pray  : 
And  churches,  long  unseen, 

In  isles,  and  far  away ! 

VII. 

Oh,  pray  that  all  who  err 
May  thus  be  gather'd  in : 


LET    OUT    THY    SOUL.  89 

The  Moslem  worshipper, 

And  all  the  sects  of  sin  ! 
For  all  who  love  in  heart, 

But  have  not  found  the  way, 
Pray — and  thy  tears  will  start ! 

'Twas  so  the  Lord  did  pray. 

VIII. 

Now,  when  the  hordes  of  Rome 

Are  up  against  the  Lord, 
All  churches  are  our  home, 

And  Prayer  our  mighty  sword  ! 
The  saints'  communion — one, 

One  Lord — one  Faith — one  birth, 
Oh,  pray  to  God  the  Sox, 

For  all  his  Church  on  Earth. 


90 


THE  SOUL-DIRGE. 


•  Then  said  Jesus,  will  ye  also  go  away." 

St.  John. 


I. 

The  organ  play'd  sweet  music 

Whileas,  on  Easter-day, 
All  heartless  from  the  altar, 

The  heedless  went  away  : 
And  down  the  broad  aisle  crowding, 

They  seem'd  a  funeral  train, 
That  were  burying  their  spirits, 

To  the  music  of  that  strain. 

II. 

As  I  listen'd  to  the  organ, 
And  saw  them  crowd  along, 

I  thought  I  heard  two  voices, 

Speaking  strangely,  but  not  strong  ; 

And  one,  it  whisper'd  sadly, 
Will  go  away  ; 


THE    SOUL-DIRGE.  91 

But  the  other  spoke  exulting, 

Ha  !  the  soul- dirge, — hear  it  play  ! 


III. 

Hear  the  soul-dirge  !  hear  the  soul-dirge  ! 

And  see  the  feast  divine ! 
Ha  !  the  jewels  of  salvation, 

And  the  trampling  feet  of  swine  ! 
Hear  the  soul-dirge  !  hear  the  soul-dirge  ! 

Little  think  they  as  they  go, 
What  priceless  pearls  they  tread  on, 

Who  spurn  their  Saviour  so  ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  soul-dirge  !  hear  the  soul-dirge  ! 

It  was  dread  to  hear  it  play, 
While  the  famishing — went  crowding 

From  the  Bread  of  Life  away  : 
They  were  bidden,  they  were  bidden 

To  their  Father's  festal  board  ; 
But  they  all,  with  gleeful  faces, 

Turn'd  their  back  upon  the  Lord. 


% 


92  TIIE    SOUL-DIRGE. 


V. 

t 

You  had  thought  the  church  a  prison, 

Had  you  seen  how  they  did  pour, 
With  giddy,  giddy  faces, 

From  the  consecrated  door ; 
There  was  angels'  food  all  ready, 

But  the  bidden — where  were  they  ? 
O'er  the  highways  and  the  hedges, 

Ere  the  soul-dirge  ceased  to  play  ! 

VI. 

Oh,  the  soul-dirge,  how  it  echoed 

The  emptied  aisles  along, 
As  the  open  streets  grew  crowded, 

With  the  full  outpouring  throng  ! 
And  then  again  the  voices  ; 

Ha  !  the  soul-dirge  !  hear  it  play  I 
And  the  pensive,  pensive  whisper, 

Will  ye  also  go  away  ? 

VII. 

Few,  few  were  they  that  linger'd, 
To  sup  with  Jesus  there  ; 


THE    SOUL-DIRGE.  93 

And  yet,  for  all  that  spurn'd  him, 

There  was  plenty,  and  to  spare  ; 
And  now  the  food  of  angels, 

Uncover'd  to  my  sight, 
All-glorious  was  the  altar, 

And  the  chalice  glitter'd  bright ! 

VIII. 

Then  came  the  hymn  Trisagion, 

And  rapt  me  up  on  high, 
With  angels  and  archangels 

To  laud  and  magnify  ; 
I  seem'd  to  feast  in  Heaven  ; 

And  downward  wafted  then, 
With  angels  chanting  round  me, 

Good  will  and  peace  to  men. 


IX. 

I  may  not  tell  the  rapture 

Of  a  banquet  so  divine  ; 
Ho  !  every  one  that  thirsteth, 

Let  him  taste  the  bread  and  wine  ! 


h  m         n 

94  THE    SOUL-DIRGE. 

Hear  the  Bride  and  Spirit  saying, 

Will  ye  also  go  away  ? 
Or — go,  poor  soul,  for  ever  ! 

Oh  !  the  soul-dirge — hear  it  play  ! 


ISCARIOT   CHAPEL. 


11  Denying  the  only  Lord  God,  and  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

Judas  not  Iscariot. 


I. 

I  pass'd  the  door  of  a  conventicle ; 

And  sooth  !  it  was  so  good  a  counterfeit, 
I  called  the  thing,  a  Church  ;  and  bade  them  tell 

What  name  of  holy  saint  they  gave  to  it. 
And  when  I  learn'd  the  truth,  I  said — how  swell 

These  frogs !  and  what  a  shocking  fit 
The  garb  of  old  religion  may  appear  ! 

The  lion's  hide,  but  ah — the  donkey's  ear ! 


ISCARIOT    CHAPEL.  95 

II. 

Dream  not  I  ventured  in  !     Unstable  souls 

Were  crowding  the  unconsecrated  door  : 
And  when  I  saw,  I  wept.     Hot  burning  coals 

Seem'd  every  tear.     I  thought — how  they  adore 
A  mountebank !  to  worship  whom,  such  shoals 

Make  holiday — and  waft  him  incense,  more 
Than  some,  baptized,  will  to  their  Saviour  pay, 
Where  the  true  church-bells  beckon  them  to  pray. 

III. 

Unstable  souls !  what  faith  do  they  profess  ? 

The  preacher's  ! — And  what,  he  1  Why,  faith,  his  own  ! 
Whence  came  it  ? — From  his  own  abstractedness  ! 

To  what  amounts  it  ? — To  this  pile  of  stone  ! 
And  should  he  die  ? — Oh  !  some  one  else,  I  guess, 

Will  come  along ;  or  lots  will  then  have  grown 
So  valuable,  that  we  can  sell  it  out, 
At  a  snug  gain  of  ten  per  cent.,  no  doubt. 

IV. 

Jesu,  Messiah  !  didst  thou  bleed  for  this  ? 
For  this,  in  agonies  didst  thou  expire  ? 


I 

96  ISCARIOT    CHAPEL. 

Is  it  for  this,  we  read  the  vestiges 

Of  thine  old  saints,  in  blood,  and  martyr-fire  ? 
Ah,  none  but  he  who  sold  thee  with  a  kiss 

Should  name  this  pile :  and  let  the  crowd  admire 
Their  mob-made  priest !  But  he's  no  son  of  thine, 
Who  fumes  the  pagod  of  this  godless  shrine  ! 


THE  HEART'S  SONG. 


'  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door." 

Our  Saviour. 


i. 

In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List  thy  bosom-door ; 
How  it  knocketh — knocketh — knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore ! 
Say  not  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating, 

'Tis  thy  heart  of  sin  ; 
Tis  thy  Saviour  stands  entreating, 

Rise,  and  let  me  in. 


.* 


the  heart's  song.  97 


II. 


Death  comes  down  with  equal  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut ; 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut ! 
Jesus  waiteth — waiteth — waiteth  ; 

But  thy  door  is  fast : 
Griev'd,  at  length  away  he  turneth ; 

Death  breaks  in  at  last ! 

III. 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand  entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in ; 
At  the  door  of  Heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  alas,  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot, 
Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee, 

But — he  knows  thee  not ! 


i 


98 


NEW-YEAR'S  DAY. 


The  mourners  go  about  the  streets. 

Eccles. 


I. 

'Tis  New-Year's  Day !     The  Promenade 

Is  all  alive  ; — but  yet  'tis  solemn ! 
Music  and  mirth,  and  masquerade, 

As  on  they  march  in  solid  column, 
Old  Time  their  captain — Death  their  foe, 
And  to  be  shot  at — how  they  go ! 

II. 

There's  a  great  action  to  be  fought ! 

But  first  they  love  a  little  funning ; 
A  rubber  with  old  Death,  for  nought ; 

A  match  'gainst  Time — they're  dicing,  running, 
And  still  en  route  !  Ho  !   Tete  d'armee, 
March  !  En  avant !  I  heard  Time  say  ! 


new-year's  day,  99 


III. 


The  world  is  out,  the  world's  astir ; 

The  beau  with  smiles  the  belle  is  cheering ; 
Old  Time,  the  while,  at  him  and  her, 

Arm-lock'd  with  Death,  sits  calmly  leering  : 
Ho,  Death,  says  Time — a  fair  game  !  very  ! 
We  winners,  grave — the  losers,  merry  ! 

IV. 

A  happy  year !  old  Death,  hear  that ! 

This  year  makes  her  two  wrinkles  older, 
And  he'll  find  locks  beneath  his  hat, 

And  stray  hairs,  dropping  on  his  shoulder, 
Gray — as  your  own  pale  steed,  old  Death  ! 
But  hush  !  don't  laugh  above  your  breath  ! 


Ay,  brother  Time  :  See  that  young  limb, 
Heir  to  his  Father's  gains  on  cotton  ! 

I've  kept  the  merchandise  for  him, 

Three  yards  to  wrap  him — cold  and  rotten  : 

The  gains — will  come  a  day  too  late, 

Save  silver  for  his  coffin-plate  ! 


100  new-year's  day. 


VI. 


Year  after  year — year  after  year  ! 

Old  faces  gone — raw  conscripts  coming  ; 
From  the  old  rounds  they  disappear, 

But  still  the  promenade  keeps  humming ! 
See  how  they  march  !  Death,  shoot  some  arrows  ; 
Blank  cartridges — for  joints  and  marrows  ! 

VII. 

Rheums,  chills,  and  aches !  Shoot  sly — take  care ! 

Now — bravo  !  isn't  it  amazing  ! 
We're  giving  them  our  broadest  stare, 

And  no  one  sees  us  sit  here  gazing  ! 
Nay,  look  ! — there's  one  old  man  can  see  ? 
Strange,  cried  old  Death, — he  smiles  at  me  ! 

VIII. 

Poh — yes  !  He  isn't  worth  our  game  ; 

I  saw  him,  when  St.  Paul's  was  tolling, 
Go  in  to  prayers  ;  and  out  he  came, 

And  smiled  to  see  my  wheel  a-rolling  ; 
Answcr'd  old  Time !     But  come  this  way, 
Snap  up  the  fools  that  will  not  pray ! 


NEW- YEAR'S    DAY.  101 


IX. 


Such  was  the  talk  I  seem'd  to  hear, 

Amid  the  buzz,  the  jests,  and  greeting  ! 

There's  mockery  to  my  simple  ear, 

In  mirth — when  our  poor  life  is  fleeting  ! 

Smile — only  ye,  whose  Faith  sublime 
Hath  years — beyond  the  years  of  Time  ! 


LAMENT. 


The  years  draw  nigh  when  thou  shalt  say,  I  have  no  pleasure. 

Eccles. 


I. 

Years  are  coming  hither 

When  this  heart  so  gay, 
Much  I  fear  will  wither  ! 
Youth's  away — away. 


102  LAMENT. 

Men  are  brothers — brothers  ! 

Oh  !  I  tremble  then, 
Lest  I  grow  as  others 

Of  my  fellow-men. 

II. 

Those  of  whims  and  wrinkles, 

Once  were  blithe  as  I ; 
Heads  that  frost  besprinkles, 

Once  look'd  bonnily  ; 
And  where  winter  lingers 

Upon  the  old  man's  curls, 
Have  play'd  the  taper  fingers 

Of  well-beloved  girls. 

III. 

Oh,  must  the  years  come  on  me 
When  these  are  no  delight ! 

Must  frost-work  fall  upon  me, 
And  deadliness  and  blight ; 

This  heart  that  loves  the  summer, 
Be  chilly  as  the  cold  ; 

And  I  be  dim,  and  dumber 

Than  the  mummies  of  the  Old  ! 


LAMENT.  103 

IV. 

And  am  I  surely  growing 

In  soul  and  senses  seal'd, 
Like  him  who,  all  unknowing, 

Is  frozen  and  congeal'd ! 
I  know  it — ah,  I  know  it ; 

Of  all  the  world  'tis  true  ; 
And  the  fibres  of  the  poet 

Must  break — or  toughen  too. 

v. 

Thank  God  with  all  my  spirit 

For  my  only,  only  cheer, 
Since  I  learnt  that  I  inherit 

A  destiny  so  drear. 
But  now  I  care  not  for  it, 

And  welcome  is  the  grave  ; 
Oh  why  should  I  abhor  it, 

Since  only  it  can  save ! 

VI. 

I've  seen  a  worm  that  weaveth 
His  shroud  as  with  delight ; 


104  LAMENT. 


Then  sleeps,  as  who  believeth, 
He  only  bids  good  night. 

Then  up  again  he  springeth, 
A  wing'd  and  elfin  form  ; 

Away,  away  he  wingeth, 
An  angel  from  a  worm  ! 

VII. 

Wise  worm !  and  I,  his  brother, 

Will  learn  from  him  to  live ! 
A  lesson  that  no  other 

So  beautiful  can  give. 
Oh,  weave  in  life  thy  swathing, 

And  then  in  Christ  repose  ! 
Who  maketh  life  a  plaything 

Is  born  to  many  woes. 


p 
105 


TALLEYRAND. 


I. 


In  stranger  homes,  beyond  our  vision's  power, 

If  we  must  dwell,  when  we  have  lived  our  day, 
What  shall  it  boot  to  gain,  for  one  brief  hour, 

The  whole  wide  world — and  lose  the  soul  for  aye  ! 

Thus  while  I  muse,  my  soul  delights  to  pray, 
And  oft,  at  even,  will  itself  beguile 

Star-gazing  into  ether,  far  away, 
Where  I  shall  live,  when  fades  each  glittering  isle, 
That  looks  from  highest  heaven  with  many-dimpled  smile. 

II. 

They  gave  a  dead  man's  mask  into  my  hand, 

A  lean,  lank  cast — a  death's  head  clad  in  skin ! 
Lord  of  thy  saints  !  and  this  was  Talleyrand  ! 

The  house  that  Judas-spirit  haunted  in  ! 

Through  these  shrunk  lips,  the  being  that  had  been 
Mitred  and  blessed,  beneath  this  dry  skull-bone, 

Went  out !  I  shudder  at  the  death  of  sin  ! 


106  TALLEYRAND. 

Went  out — but  whither  !  went — and  went  alone, 
Mute — but  alive  with  fears  that  were  too  mad  to  moan. 

HI. 

If  in  that  parting  moment,  as  some  deem, 

The  soul  doth  waken  up,  with  many  a  sense 
It  had  not  known  before — and  spirits  seem 

All  palpably  array'd  to  bear  it  hence  ; 

How  raved  this  spirit  for  some  strong  defence, 
'Gainst  grappling  fiends  that  claim  the  perjur'd  soul ! 

How  blench'd  to  meet  the  high  Omnipotence ! 
How  shriek'd  to  hear,  just  launching  from  this  goal, 
Thy  waves,  Etermtty — in  everlasting  roll ! 

IV. 

Oh,  crusty  skull !  what  tenants  thou  hast  held 

In  the  strange  thoughts,  that,  like  a  caravan, 
Came  in,  and  went ;  and,  one  by  one,  impell'd 

To  his  soul's  barter,  that  apostate  man  ! 

Doubts,  fears,  bold  ventures,  tremblings — here  they  ran  ! 
Ambition — dread  ;  strong  fright — and  stronger  lust ; 

The  deed ;  remorse — and  then,  the  death  began 
That  ends,  at  length,  in  this  !    Thou,  Lord,  art  just ! 
These  lips  blasphemed  thy  name,  and  now  these  lips  are  dust ! 


TALLEYRAND.  107 


V. 


Bishop  of  Autun  !  Yes — this  toothless  mouth, 

These  shrivelPd  lips  vowed  Talleyrand  to  God  ! 

These  parchment  lips,  that  now  are  sere  with  drouth  ; 
These  blasted  lips— death-frozen  and  unthaw'd, 
These  gave  the  oath,  and  breathed  the  vow  abroad  ; 

And  now  the  Lord  hath  scathed  them !  all  within 
Has  fled — and  this,  his  monumental  clod, 

Remains  to  mock  him — mouth  and  pointed  chin, 

Sharp  bones  and  hollow  eyes — a  moral — and  a  grin  ! 

VI. 

Come  !  dress  it  up  ! — A  mitre  on  this  brow  ! 

Chimar  and  rochet  o'er  the  shoulders  fling ! 
Give  his  wan  fist  the  pastoral  staff — and  now, 

Shall  Ca-Ira— or  old  Te  Deum  ring ! 

Which  shall  he  hear — for  both  he  used  to  sing  ? 
Thy  hymn,  Marseilles, — thy  hymns,  Milan,  he  knew  ! 

And  either,  like  the  second  death,  would  sting  ! 
Which — which  would  pierce  this  ear's  dry  chambers  through, 
If  now,  avenging  God,  thy  judgment  trumpet  blew ! 


108  TALLEYRAND. 

VII. 

Ha !  he  was  high-priest  once  at  Notre  Dame, 

In  Mary's  Church  the  pimp  of  Liberte  ! 
Chanting  for  Hell-let-loose,  the  infernal  psalm, 

And  swinging  censers  for  the  Champ-de-Mai  ! 

Here's  the  last  act  of  that  Satanic  play, 
This  skull  of  Perigord,  who  gave  mankind 

A  glimpse  of  Tophet  in  high  holiday, 
And  struck  the  affrighted  nations  blear  and  blind, 
With  but  the  glance  they  caught,  and  what  they  fear'd 
behind. 

VIII. 

Name  not  Marat — Orleans — nor  black  Voltaire  : 

These  fright  me  not  from  tales  of  modern  Gaul  ; 
Devils  have  names,  and  he  must  meet  them  there, 

Who  reads  those  bloody  chronicles  at  all ; 

But  thine,  Brienne — thine,  Talleyrand,  appal ! 
Ye  that  betray'd  God's  altars,  where,  of  old, 

Nations  of  martyrs  thought  it  joy  to  fall, 
And  bought  the  truth  with  better  things  than  gold, 
Which  ye — Iscariots  both — for  worse  than  silver  sold  ! 


TALLEYRAND.  109 

IX. 

Poor  Church  of  Gaul  !  'twas  Christ's  own  scourge  on  thee ; 

He  gave  thee  such  apostles,  in  his  wrath ! 
Traitress  wert  thou,  in  England's  agony, 

False  to  thyself,  and  true  to  them  of  Gath  ! 

Poor  Church  of  Gaul !  how  low  the  Roman  hath 
Bow'd  thy  weak  knee — because  thou  wouldst  not  stand  ! 

Up,  up,  poor  Church !  and,  in  thine  ancient  path, 
Let  old  Pothinus  lead  thee  !     Thou  wert  mann'd 
With  sterner  stuff,  at  first — than  such  as  Talleyrand  ! 


God  of  thy  martyrs !  and  could  Rome  amend 

A  traitor's  life,  in  life's  last  idiot  hour  ? 
Then  dirge,  and  unction,  and  a  heartless  end, 

With  priests  and  wafers,  have  surpassing  power  ! 

These  jaws  once  more  the  corpus  did  devour, 
As  breath  was  ebbing  from  them  :  can  it  be 

Such  etiquette  will  chase  the  clouds  that  lower 
Round  the  poor  sinner's  mortal  agony  ? 
He  died  in  Rome's  embrace  :  Lord,  let  me  die  in  thee ! 


110 


GOD  OPES  THE  WAY. 

A   HYMN   FOR   THE   TIMES. 
I. 

I'll  weep  no  more — for  tears  are  shame ! 

No  more  I'll  sing  ;  my  harp  is  still : 
But  I  have  yet  a  soldier's  name, 

And  still  the  battle-note  can  thrill ; 
The  humblest  voice  may  sound  alarm  ; 
Ho,  then !  for  Christ — arm,  soldiers,  arm  ! 

II. 

Our  foes  are  many  a  barbarous  clan  ; 

Yes — and  the  iron  hordes  of  Rome  ! 
But  up  !  what ! — sleep'st  thou,  Christian  man, 

While  these  make  havoc  of  our  home  ? 
Kings,  hosts,  are  theirs — and  gold,  and  towers : 
But  count  them  not ! — the  Lord  is  ours. 


GOD    OPES    THE    WAY.  Ill 

III. 

Blow  up  the  trump  !  Send  warning  forth, 
To  every  land  Christ's  sons  have  trod ; 

Call  up  from  South,  and  East,  and  North, 
The  strong  Church  Catholic  of  God  ! 

Peace,  doubtful  tongue !  nor  stammer  Nay  ; 

Have  but  the  heart— God  opes  the  way  ! 

IV. 

Ho  !  to  the  British  legions  strong ; 

Ho  to  the  Swede — the  Dane — the  Russ  ! 
Let  these  but  roll  the  cry  along, 

And  God's  wide  world  shall  wake  for  us ! 
Once  more  shall  old  Nicaea  speak, 
And  far  Armenian,  answer  Greek. 

V. 

Think  ye  the  Hindu  world  shall  hear, 

And  send  no  echo  to  the  sound  ? 
Exulting  nations  shall  give  ear, 

And  Himmalayah's  heights  resound  ; 
For  not  in  vain,  their  torrid  air 
Martyrs  the  Northern  bishops  there  ! 


112  GOD    OPES  THE  WAY. 

VI. 

Copt,  Abyssinian — from  the  dust 
Of  ages,  shall  their  raiment  shake : 

And  many  spirits  of  the  just, 
In  these  degenerate  sons  awake  ! 

Dry  bones  they  are — but  God  can  raise 

Old  Antony,  and  Athanase. 

VII. 

And  where  the  pirate  lurks  along, 
By  old  Numidia's  hallowed  shore, 

Or  Carthage,  echoes  back  the  song 
Of  idle  rover  to  his  oar, 

Altar  and  column  yet  shall  tell 

How  Austin  died— how  Cyprian  fell. 

VIII. 

Wake,  Church  of  God  !  'tis  not  for  thee 
Like  Dagon  on  the  earth  to  lie ; 

Be  all  thy  Lord  hath  bid  thee  be, 

And  wear  the  name  Christ  calls  thee  by  ! 

Mother  and  bride — I  deem  it  shame 

Thou  shouldst  not  wear  thy  spousal  name. 


GOD    OPES    THE    WAY.  113 

IX. 

Mother !  thy  spoiler  is  thy  child  ! 

The  Roman  scarr'd  the  Saviour's  side, 
And  now,  the  Roman,  reconciPd, 

Scars  the  fair  bosom  of  his  bride ! 
Mother — thou  couldst  not  know  before, 
That  earth  could  bear  one  Judas  more ! 

X. 

But,  light  this  world-wide  zone  of  fire, 

'Twill  hedge  the  Latin  scorpion  in  ; 
Etna  and  Alp^a  funeral  pyre 

Forever,  to  the  man  of  sin ! 
Tours  and  Milan  were  fuel  then, 
To  burn  the  dragon  in  his  den ! 

XI. 

Once  more  Byzance  were  Constantine's  ; 

The  Lord  can  make  it  ours  once  more ; 
Ay — priests  should  bless  the  sacred  signs, 

Again,  on  St.  Sophia's  floor  ; 
Again,  her  cross  should  tower  in  air, 
O'er  Earth's  apostles,  councilPd  there. 


114  GOD    OPES    THE    WAY. 

XII. 

Lord — but  it  makes  me  strong  to  think, 
How  then  would  quail  the  hosts  of  Trent ! 

How  Rome's  outnumber'd  hordes  would  shrink, 
Before  that  holy  parliament ! 

Rome's  patriarch,  too,  should  hear  the  call, 

And  Rome  herself  obey,  or  fall. 

XIII. 

Up,  let  your  sword  with  prayer  be  bright  t 
Our  Captain  Christ  shall  lead  us  through  ; 

Though  strong  our  foes — the  red-cross  knight 
Ne'er  calls  his  Captain's  ranks  too  few. 

Faith,  be  thy  shield ;  thy  watchword — Pray  : 

Have  but  the  heart :  God  opes  the  way.. 


11& 


SONNETS. 


TO  JOHN  JAY,  ESQUIRE. 

July  4,  1838.    From  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson. 

r. 

This  noisy  day  of  young  Columbia's  note, 

Which  her  sons  keep,  to  shew  that  they  are  free, 
By  putting  on  mad  Riot's  slavery, 

And  chains  far  worse  than  George's  were,  I  wote  : 

This  Summer  day,  dear  Jay,  did  I  devote, 

To  climb  old  Buttress  :  'twas  a  brilliant  morn, 
And  up  the  windings  of  old  Hudson  borne, 

Far  cannonade  and  feu-de-joie  did  float. 
Half  up  I  paus'd  :  a- weary,  and  inclin'd 
To  view  awhile  what  I  had  left  behind, 

The  vales  below,  and  many  a  banner'd  boat ; 
And  sad  to  gaze  on  many  a  vapid  wreath, 
Belch'd  forth,  like  curses,  in  the  towns  beneath, 
With  vollied  clamours,  from  the  cannon's  throat. 


116  SONNETS. 

II. 

Thus,  on  the  world,  I  cried,  the  soul  must  gaze 
That  hath  put  off  its  clog,  and  turns  to  view 
The  dreary  valley  it  hath  traveled  through, 

In  purer  air,  and  realms  beyond  the  haze. 

So  I,  half  up  the  mountain,  in  amaze, 
Look  down  upon  the  folly  of  the  crowd, 
And  pity  the  poor  revel,  that  so  loud 

Reverberates  adown  these  God-built  ways. 
Oh  then,  how  poor  ariseth  such  a  din 
In  his  dread  ear,  who  o'er  a  world  of  sin, 

In  tender  pity,  weeps,  as  he  surveys 
The  man  He  made  of  fine  intelligence, 
Belittling  so  his  glory,  and  his  sense, 

And  wasting  thus  his  Life,  and  golden  days  ! 

III. 

Let  me  go  higher  !     And  again  I  went 
And  felt  the  mountain,  like  a  ladder,  set 
To  raise  my  yearning  spirit  higher  yet 

T'wards  that  dear  Heaven,  on  which  my  heart  is  bent. 

Thus  ever  be  the  broil  and  discontent 
Of  Earth  beneath  me  !  Ever  let  me  rise 


SONXETS.  117 

As  then,  still  nearer  to  my  native  skies, 
And  feed  on  glorious  thrills  of  wonderment ! 
I  gain'd  the  top,  and  then  I  climb'd  a  pine  : 
And  there  awhile  I  bask'd  me,  in  the  shine 
Of  an  unclouded  noontide,  and  upsent 
My  spirit's  anthem,  to  the  God  who  gave 
The  scene  I  saw,  the  mountain  and  the  wave, 
And  happy  farms  o'er  all  the  map  besprent. 

IV. 

Oh  then,  dear  friend,  if  thou  hadst  been  with  me, 
And  with  us  two — the  other  !     We  had  been, 
Methinks,  in  rapture,  gazing  on  the  scene, 

Though  all  too  faintly,  like  the  blessed  three, 

Who  on  the  mountain  were  allow'd  to  see 

Transfigur'd  God  !     For  on  that  mountain  bare, 
I  could  but  feel  'twas  holy  to  be  there, 

Upraised  in  soul — uplifted  bodily. 

Alas !  the  great  apostles,  when  they  came 

Down  from  that  height  that  glow'd  with  living  flame. 

Were  met  by  crowds,  like  those  awaiting  me ; 
A  boisterous  rout,  a  clamouring  multitude  ; 
And  boys,  led  on  by  one  in  frantic  mood, 

With  Satan  in  him,  and  all  Deviltrie ! 


118  SONNETS. 

V. 

( The  Lord  deliver  from  the  power  of  ill, 

The  crowds  I  met,  as  then  of  old  he  did  ; 

Or  else,  my  country,  speedy  will  be  hid 
Thy  rising  star,  when  such  as  these  shall  fill 
Thy  Senate-chairs,  and  mould  the  people's  will. 

Oh,  who,  from  such,  but  would  with  pride  reject 

The  beastly  glory  of  the  mob's  respect, 
And  all  their  praise  by  rhetoric  or  quill ! 

For  me — on  Buttress-top  a  laurel  grows  ; 

I  found  it  there,  in  blossom  like  the  rose, 
And  all  alone,  in  elevated  thrill, 

I  pluck'd  the  omen,  and  the  moral  felt. 

Seek  wreaths  above  the  world — I  said,  and  knelt 
In  Heaven's  pure  smile,  on  proud  old  Buttress-hill ! 


SONNET 

INSCRIBED  ON  AN  JEOLUS'  HARP. 

Oh  little  harp,  thou  art  a  soulless  thing, 

And  hast  nor  life,  nor  feeling  ;  and  the  care 

Of  this  sad  world  thou  knowest  not,  nor  dost  share 

The  old  man's  tears — the  young  heart's  suffering. 


SONNETS.  119 

Yet  ev'n  when  Summer's  breeze  assails  thy  string, 
With  kiss  all  soft,  but  yet  too  rough  for  thee, 
Thou  grievest ;   and  thine  elfin  wail  to  me 

Is  more  than  I  can  bear  :  for  thou  dost  sing 
In  unison  with  my  deep  spirit's  lyre, 

That  is  of  finer  fibre  even  than  thine  ; 

And  oh,  when  tempests  are  o'ersweeping  mine, 

And  the  rough  storm  would  break  each  tender  wire, 

What  wonder  if  they  vibrate,  and  outpour 

Notes  desolate  as  thine,  and  thoughts  complaining  more. 


TO  DANIEL  HUNTINGTON,  ESQUIRE. 
ON  HIS  EMBARKING   FOR    ITALY. 

Go,  gaze  on  Como,  and  the  mirror'd  sky 
Of  the  old  lakes  where  poets  lov'd  to  dwell ; 
But  love  o'er  Alp  or  Appenine,  as  well, 

To  climb  the  crags,  or  tread  the  mountains  high, 

Renown'd  in  song,  of  rare  old  Italy. 
Nor  oft  forget  to  thrid  the  wild  ravines 
Of  Teverone,  mid  the  sunny  scenes, 

My  fancy  pictures  dimly  :  and  which  I 

Long  thought  to  visit  even  bodily. 


120  SONNETS. 

But  this  denied,  still  half  my  prayer  is  gain'd, 
Since  thou  art  going  ;  by  whose  pencil  feign'd 

On  canvass,  soon,  I  promise  my  sad  eye 
To  see  that  summer-clime  so  well  explain'd, 

As  shall  content  me,  even  here  to  die. 


TO  EDWARD  HENRY  HYDE. 


FROM  THE  RESIDENCE   OF  THE  LATE  BISHOP  HOBART. 

Here,  with  a  friend,  that,  as  a  brother  dear, 
My  spirit  claims  for  kin,  dear  Edward,  I 
Am  lounging  off  my  Summer  vacancy 

In  merry  mood,  and  happiness  sincere. 

And  oft,  in  morning  walk,  by  streamlet  clear, 
Or  copsy  dell,  I  think,  and  talk  of  thee, 
And  how  thou  once  wast  wont  to  stroll  with  me ! 

Then  too  we  notice  how  the  waning  year 
Hangs  a  drear  warning,  upon  every  tree, 
That  time  is  fleeting,  and  as  fleeting  we. 
And  other  morals  in  our  walks  we  see, 

At  every  turn — for  sainted  Hobart  here, 
On  field,  and  grove,  hath  writ  his  memory, 

And  oft  some  tree  he  planted  claims  a  tear. 


S0NNET8.  121 


TO  C.  VERBRYCK,  ESQUIRE. 

I'll  spoil  a  sonnet,  but  I'll  tell  thee  now, 
How  much  I  love  thy  reveries  and  dreams, 
Thy  vein  poetic,  and  thy  darling  themes 

Of  dear  pursuits  ;  and  stories  that  allow 

The  frequent  laugh — though  thou  canst  weep,  I  trow  ! 
And  how  I  love  to  plot  with  thee,  sweet  schemes 
Of  future  life,  commingling  the  extremes 

Of  mirthful  hours,  and  days  of  thoughtful  brow. 

For,  like  a  strange  Chiar'oscuro,  thou 

Hast  in  thy  soul  mysterious  power  of  shade, 
While  thy  warm  heart,  of  sun-shine's  self  is  made  ; 

And  if  thou 'It  labour  out  thyself,  enow, 
Upon  thy  canvass — all,  I  promise  you, 
Will  love  the  Picture,  and  the  Painter  too  ! 


TO  J.  H.  H. 


Harry — the  Fifth  !     But  once  dear  mad-cap  Hal ! 
How  changed  is  Hal  indeed  !     Bethink  thee,  friend, 
How  we  began  a  life  that  ne'er  shall  end, 


122  SONNETS. 

That  ne'er  shall  die, — tho'  worlds  and  empires  shall ! 

We  were  together,  when,  so  musical, 

The  dance  and  banquet  were  our  fond  delight, 
The  club,  and  friendly  converse,  all  the  night, 

And  life  itself  was  one  gay  festival ! 

Bethink  thee,  then,  of  steadier  hours — but  bright, 
Yea,  brighter  than  before — on  mountain-height, 

And  in  Westchester's  dells,  and  deep  ravines ! 

Have  I  not  conjured  up  a  thousand  scenes  ! 
Forget  them  all ! — God's  altars  are  in  sight ; 
Christ  calls  for  soldiers.     Arm  we  now  for  fight ! 


TO  J.  I.  T.,  ESQUIRE. 


ON  HIS  RETURN  FROM  TRAVEL. 


Safe  home  already  !     Well,  I  did  not  dream 

Greece,  Turkey,  and  the  land  of  Nile,  so  near ! 

When  I  learn'd  my  Geography — 'tis  queer  ! 
Those  countries  like  some  Fairyland  did  seem, 
Where  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  or  Polypheme, 

Or  men  with  heads  beneath  their  armpits  dwelt ! 

And  even  in  elder  years,  remote  I  felt 
From  those  old  regions  of  Homeric  theme. 
But— oh  ye  powers  of  Wonder  and  of  Steam  ! 


SONNETS.  123 

I  welcome  thee,  unchanged,  from  those  same  lands ; 

And  scarce  'twas  yesterday  when  we  shook  hands  ! 
How  did  you  leave  old  Athens — and  the  Pnyx  ! 
What !     In  an  omnibus  !     At  half-past  six, 
On  Friday  week !     And  Athens  built  of  bricks  ! 


TO  JOHN  FINLEY  SMITH,  M.  A. 

PROFESSOR    OF    GREEK,    HAMILTON   COLLEGE. 

I  have  no  wealth  in  gold — but  in  my  friends, 
I  count  me  richer  than  the  millionaire, 
Or  any  king  that  reigneth  anywhere, 

Where  the  dear  Sun  his  daily  glory  sends  ; 

Oh — for  such  wealth,  could  kingdoms  make  amends  ! 
The  glorious  Arts  have  each  their  devotee, 
In  the  blest  circle  that  have  hearts  for  me ; 

And  thou  art  Music's  child :  and  when  she  blends 

Her  voice  with  festal  songs — or  when  ascends 
On  diapason-blasts,  her  soul  in  pray'r, 
Controll'd  by  thee — 'tis  blessed  to  be  there  ! 

I've  seen  the  thrilPd  piano  made  a  part 

Of  thine  own  soul — and  not  a  thing  of  Art ; 

The  swelling  organ's  self  has  seem'd  thy  heaving  heart ! 


iA 


m 


124  SONNETS. 


TO  S.  H.  C. 


Had  I,  dear  brother,  but  a  Sabine  farm 
Whereto  my  friends,  like  Horace's  of  old, 
Could  crowd,  and  keep  their  holidays,  when  cold 
The  Winter  pipes  her  rude  and  shrill  alarm  : 
Oh,  had  I  such  a  home — where,  free  from  harm 
Life  might  glide  easy  to  some  quiet  tune, 
And  bear  me  through  my  journey  not  too  soon  ; 
Say  would  I  lack  for  friends  to  give  the  charm  ? 
Thou  knowest  the  hearts  so  generous  and  warm, 
With  whom  I  interchange  that  holy  name  ! 
Yet  even  than  friendship,  there's  a  holier  claim  ; 
God  made  my  brother — but  my  friends  I  chose  : 
The  same  dear  bosom  nursed  us  :  the  same  throes 
Gave  us  our  life — I'll  love  thee  to  its  close ! 


TO  A  FRIEND. 
WITH    AN    ECCE    HOMO    OF    SIR    THOMAS    LAWRENCE. 

See,  crown'd  with  thorns,  thy  Saviour  and  thy  King ! 
The  Meek  and  Lowly,  and  the  bleeding  brow  ! 
Oh,  in  his  lowliness,  how  awful  now, 


SONNETS.  125 

How  all  the  God  shines  out  in  suffering ! 

Around  the  Virgin-born,  the  rabble  cling  ; 

At  that  mild  eye,  they  gape  unmoved  ;  and  sounds 
Their  ruffian-laugh,  to  gall  his  many  wounds  ; 

Now  shall  thy  treach'ry  add  a  deeper  sting  ! 

Hast  thou  another  deadlier  scoff  to  fling, 
Like  Judas'  kisses,  on  that  smitten  cheek  I 
Was  this  shorn  lambkin,  but  a  martyr  meek, 

And  not  thy  God  !    Then  kiss  him  not,  nor  call 

The  Lord  of  Glory,  pretty  names  at  all ; 

The  Bride  of  Christ  defends  his  name  Majestical  f 


TO  J.  J. 


Make  me  a  word  from  so  me  sweet  tongue  they  speak 
In  better  lands  ;  that  I  may  call  thee  by 
A  name  that's  worthy  of  the  nameless  tie, 
I  feel  for  thee  and  Harry  :  Goth  and  Greek 
Have  left  unmoulded  the  sweet  word  I  seek, 
And  tho'  my  soul  half  whispers  it,  I  try 
In  vain  to  utter  forth  its  harmony  : 
So,  oft  when  Thought  is  full  the  Tongue  is  weak* 
The  spirit's  kin  !     It  maketh  language  tame, 


126  SONNETS. 

For  viewless  as  the  magnet's  sympathy, 
Earth  hath  no  share  in  its  deep  mystery, 

And  gives  the  holy  brotherhood  no  name. 

'Tis  Heaven's  alone !  who  first  of  our  dear  three, 

Shall  learn  what  kin  we  are — in  Immortality  ? 
Morrisania,  October ,  1841. 


127 


THEOPHANY, 

OR  THE  VISION  OF   HABBAKUK. 
I. 

The  sun  has  set  on  Palestine, 
And  double  night  is  there, 

The  dark  has  blotted  out  the  stars, 
And  awed  the  stilly  air  : 

Yet  lingers  in  the  west  a  streak 
Of  lurid  steely  glare. 

II. 

The  day's  last  smile  it  is  ;  but  night 

Is  darker  for  the  glow  ; 
And  blackness  scowls  more  fearfully 

For  light  that  lowereth  so, 
As  tempest  is  more  terrible 

That  cometh  hushed  and  slow. 


128  THEOPHANY. 

III. 

And  silence  reigns.     But  ply  your  oars, 

When  sirens  sing  their  psalm. 
The  sea  is  mighty  when  it  roars, 
Is  glorious  dashed  on  mountain  shores, 

But  awful  when  'tis  calm.. 
Then  who  can  bear  the  glassy  glare 

For  miles  around  it  gives, 
Unruffled  here,  unmoving  there, 

No  sign  of  aught  that  lives  : 
For  silence  is  the  harbinger 

Of  storm  and  tempest  near  : 
The  mildness  of  the  distant  flash 

Till  thunders  rend  the  ear  I 

IV. 

And  silence  subtilly  doth  creep 
From  slumber's  noiseless  caves  ; 

And  o'er  the  desert  broodeth  deep, 

Or  e'er  the  blast  the  waste  doth  sweep 
And  heave  its  sandy  waves. 

And  earthquake  wakes  not  till  the  wind 
Hath  ceased  its  noisy  blow, 

Nor  glows  the  hot  volcano's  glare 


THEOPHANY.  129 

Till  the  dumb  fiend  enchains  the  air 
And  calms  the  sea  below. 

V. 

So  comes  the  tornade  of  the  west, 

So  comes  the  whirlwind,  now ; 
Yon  cloud  in  deadly  stillness  drest, 
That  seemeth  but  a  babe  at  rest, 

Shall  make  Libanus  bow. 

VI. 

The  storm  came  on.     'Twas  middle  night 

Before  it  ceased  ;  and  there, 
Bending  beneath  the  winds  that  toss'd 

His  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
Upon  a  mountain's  craggy  height 

The  Prophet  pour'd  his  prayer. 

VII. 

Oh  not  to  him  that  tempest  came 

With  rattling  thunder,  lurid  flame 

And  rushing  winds,  as  when 
Through  the  torn  skies,  Jehovah's  wrath 
Doth  blaze  adown  the  lightning's  path, 

To  tame  the  hearts  of  men  : 


130  THEOPHANY. 

Oh  not  to  him,  that  raging  blast 
That  toss'd  his  white  locks  as  it  pass'd 

Was  terrible  alone  : 
There  was  amid  those  lightnings  warm, 
A  spirit  floating  in  the  storm, 
A  shape  of  fear — an  awful  form 

Unspeakable — unknown  ! 

VIII. 

Yet  when  the  whirldwind  went,  and  still 

Was  every  leaf  and  sound, 
When  the  dark  night  had  settled  chill, 

And  calm  came  brooding  round, 
His  voice  was  heard — and  thus  his  prayer 
Rose  wildly  on  the  frighted  air. 

IX. 

Lord,  I  did  hear  thy  speech.     With  palsied  fears 
I  heard  and  trembled  !     Lord,  in  midst  of  years, 
In  midst  of  years  thine  awful  might  make  known, 
Yet  in  thy  wrath,  let  mercy,  Lord,  be  shown. 

X. 

God  came  from  Teman,  and  the  Holy  One 
From  Paran's  Mount — his  glory  like  the  sun  ! 


THEOPHANY.  131 

Astonished  nations  learned  his  wondrous  ways, 
And  Earth  resounded  with  its  Maker's  praise. 
He  came  and  glorious  was  his  presence  bright ! 
Dwelt  in  his  hands,  the  symbols  of  his  might  : 
Before  him  flew  the  angel  of  his  ire  : 
Blazed  at  his  feet  live  coals  of  burning  fire. 

XI. 

He  stood  and  spanned  the  Heavens.     The  nation  shook 

Awed  by  the  terrors  of  his  angry  look  ; 

Reeled  the  eternal  hills,  the  mountains  bowed, 

Wide  quaked  the  world,  and  roared  the  thunders  loud. 

Sad  Cushan  mourned — and  Midian's  curtained  land 

Trembled  beneath  the  chastening  of  his  hand. 

In  sore  displeasure,  o'er  the  river's  tide, 

Fierce  did  the  chariots  of  his  anger  ride  ; 

And — bent  his  bow  to  do  his  oath  and  word, 

Th'  affrighted  mountains  trembled  as  they  heard  ! 

The  swelling  waters  feared  his  naked  rod  ! 

Say,  was  thine  anger  'gainst  the  rivers,  God  ! 

The  deep  o'erflowed,  and  uttered  forth  its  cry, 

Murmur'd  the  waves,  and  raised  their  hands  on  high  ; 

The  Sun  and  Moon  stood  still,  or  went  with  fear, 

When  shone  thine  arrows  and  thy  glittering  spear, 


132  THEOPHANY. 

War  with  the  earth,  in  fury  thou  didst  wage, 
And  thresh'd  the  Heathen  in  thine  awful  rage. 

XII. 

So  didst  thou  bruise  the  curst  oppressor's  sons  ! 
So  save  thy  people,  thine  anointed  ones  ! 
So  didst  thou  sweep  them  with  thy  blasting  flame, 
Whose  fury  kindled  at  thy  prophet's  name. 

XIII. 

I  heard  and  trembled  !  awful  was  thy  voice, 
Quiver'd  my  lips — yet  still  will  I  rejoice  ! 
Ev'n  though  no  figs  reward  the  labourer's  care, 
Ev'n  though  the  vine  forget  her  fruit  to  bear, 
Though  grateful  olive  yield  no  more  her  oil, 
Though  harvests  spring  not  from  the  planted  soil, 
Yet  still  in  thee,  my  God,  will  I  rejoice, 
And  to  thy  praises  tune  my  thankful  voice  ! 

1834. 


133 


THE  HEBREW  MUSE. 


I.— 1. 

Break  forth  in  song — awake,  sweet  lyre  ! 

No  more  should  Winter's  breath  profane  the  strings, 

That  erst  were  fann'd  by  seraph-wings  ; 
But  let  thine  ancient  God  the  song  inspire ! 

From  thee  of  old  harmonious  shell, 

What  strains  of  heav'nly  music  fell 
When  sainted  David  touch'd  thy  trembling  chords  ! 
A  mortal  singing  angels'  words  ; 
When  warm  with  inspiration's  fires, 
He  swept  with  flying  hand  thy  quiv'ring  wires, 
And  shed  a  thrilling  rapture  round  ; 
While  Heaven  was  bent  to  hear,  and  God  approv'd  the  sound. 

I.— 2. 

Oh  !  holy  harp  of  nobler  strain 

Than  Homer's  torrent-song,  or  Maro's  lay, 


€ 


134  THE    HEBREW    MUSE. 

Long  have  thy  golden  strings  in  slumber  lain, 

Since  that,  thy  brightest  day. 
Yet  wake  again — be  strung  once  more, 
To  sing  those  Prophet-Bards  of  yore 
That  on  thy  wires  their  glowing  praise  express'd, 
In  song  forth-flaming  from  their  breast ; 
Since  first  the  leader  of  th'  anointed  host 
Beheld  the  proud  Egyptian's  boast, 
Humbled  beneath  his  vengeful  rod, 
And  sung  with  rapturous  voice  the  triumph  of  his  God. 


Whelm'd  beneath  the  angry  wave, 
Lay  the  mighty  and  the  brave, 
While  the  sons  of  Abram  stood, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  swelling  flood, 
And  view'd  their  billowy  grave. 
Then  Moses  sang  the  thrilling  story, 
By  the  raging  waters  hoary, 

While  the  timbrels  joined  the  chorus 
And  the  virgins  tuned  their  voice  : 

Shout !    our  foes  are  fall'n  before  us, 
And  ye  holy  tribes  rejoice  ! 


* 


THE    HEBREW    MUSE. 


135 


Behold  the  rescue  that  your  God  hath  made, 

Behold  the  horse  and  rider  in  the  deep, 
Low  'neath  the  surge  is  haughty  Pharaoh  laid, 

And  Egypt's  daughters  are  but  left  to  weep. 
Vain  were  their  men  of  war — their  chariots  vain, 
Our  God  but  sent  his  breath — th'  embattled  hosts  were  slain. 

II.— 1. 

Hush'd  is  the  song.     The  muse  divine, 

Led  by  the  mystic  cloud  and  pillar'd  blaze, 

With  pilgrim  feet  o'er  desert  ways, 
Journeys  tow'rds  Canaan's  land  of  milk  and  wine. 

At  length  on  Sion-hill  she  stood, 

A  home  so  pleasant,  and  how  good  ! 
And  waked  to  song  once  more  her  sullen  shell. 
Thy  monarch  heard,  oh  Israel, 
When  gloom  and  grief  perplex'd  his  breast, 
And  guilt's  dark  fears  his  harrow 'd  soul  opprest ; 
Lull'd  by  the  sound,  becalm'd  and  still, 
See,  Saul's  stern  spirit  tame,  at  music's  holy  thrill ! 

II.— 2. 

Hark  !  in  the  palace -halls  the  lay,  ' 

Sung  by  the  royal  bard  is  rising  high, 


136  THE    HEBREW    MUSE. 

The  monarch's  fingers  o'er  the  harp-strings  play. 

And  like  an  angel's  fly. 
Around  the  heav'nly  glory  streams  ; 
All-radiant  with  etherial  beams, 
The  dove-like  Spirit  lights  upon  the  lyre, 
And  fills  with  life  each  conscious  wire  ; 
While  echoing  round  the  dazzled  chamber  rings, 
With  melodies  that  Gabriel  sings, 

When  high  in  heav'n  the  song  ascends, 
And  o'er  his  raptured  harp,  th'  adoring  seraph  bends. 

II.— 3. 

Now,  emerging  from  the  wood, 
Wrapt  in  odours  sweet  and  good, 
Like  the  rose  that  Sharon  rears, 
Lo  !  a  stately  form  appears, 
While  Spring  unbinds  the  flood. 
Before  him  fairest  flowers  are  blowing, 
On  the  air  their  incense  throwing, 

Loud  the  vocal  groves  are  ringing, 
See  the  budding  fig-trees  bloom  ; 

Hark  !  the  turtle-dove  is  singing, 
And  the  vineyard  yields  perfume  ! 
The  bard  with  joy  his  holy  lay  prolongs, 


THE    HEBREW    MUSE.  137 

Bids  Salem's  nymphs  with  Sion's  queen  rejoice, 
Warbles  with  tuneful  tongue  the  song  of  songs, 

And  charms  the  list'ning  mountains  with  his  voice. 
Nor  far  behind  him  comes  a  rev'rend  sire, 
His  harp  with  rapture  strung,  his  lips  new-touch'd  with  fire. 

III.— 1. 

Oh  !  noblest  of  the  poet-seers  ; 

Oh,  more  than  mortal  bard,  what  power  is  thine  ! 

What  magic  hath  thy  lyre  divine 
That  wakes  to  pure  delight,  or  melts  to  tears. 
To  thee  alone,  of  men,  'twas  given, 
With  mortal  eyes,  to  gaze  on  heaven  ; 
To  see,  where  light  empyreal  shone, 
Jehovah  on  his  flaming  throne  ; 
To  view  the  cherubim,  before 
The  blazing  presence  of  their  God  adore  : 
To  learn  the  homage  angels  pay ; 
To  hear  their  lofty  praise,  and  imitate  the  lay. 

III.— 2. 

Now  he  on  whom  thy  mantle  fell, 

Awed  by  the  heav'nly  vision  pours  his  prayer, 


138  THE    HEBREW    MUSE. 

Shiggaion's  notes  prolong  the  lofty  swell, 

And  this  the  praise  they  bear  : 
From  Paran's  mount  the  Holy  One 
Came  like  the  brightness  of  the  sun, 
Arm'd  with  his  arrows  and  his  glitt'ring  spear. 
The  starry  orbs  were  hush'd  with  fear  ! 
But  hark,  a  plaintive  voice  declares  at  hand, 
The  doomsday  of  a  guilty  land, 
And  sad  his  sighing  words  foretell 
The  woes  on  thee  to  fall — GoD-nurtured  Israel ! 


HI.— 3. 

Far  from  Sion's  holy  hill, 

Lo  !  the  muse  sedate  and  still, 

Hangs  upon  the  willows'  bough 

Her  harp,  once  sweet,  but  tuneless  now, 

And  weeps  o'er  all  her  ill. 

Her  thoughts  to  distant  Salem  flying, 

Sad  she  views,  in  ruin  lying, 

All  the  pride  and  towering  glory, 

Of  the  home  she  lov'd  so  well ; 
Juda's  field's  with  carnage  gory, 

Hinnom — made  the  vale  of  hell ! 


THE    HEBREW    MUSE.  139 

Alas  !  sad  land,  no  more  the  muse  shall  thread 

By  cool  Siloam's  stream,  or  Sion-hill, 
But  mute  she  bends  o'er  heathen  rills  her  head, 

And  weeps  for  thee,  though  lost,  remember'd  still. 
O'er  her  fair  limbs  is  tatter'd  sackcloth  flung, 
Hangs  o'er  her  drooping  head,  her  sorrowing  lyre  unstrung. 

1834. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  AMBITION. 


A  Poem  delivered  before  the  Eucleians  of  the  University  of  New  York, 
in  Clinton  Hall,  March,  1835. 


What  though  Ambition  and  her  dark  career 
On  History's  page  adorn'd  and  bright  appear  ! 
What  though  the  muse  has  wak'd  the  living  lyre, 
And  sung  her  fame  with  inspiration's  fire ! 
What  though  sweet  Rhetoric,  in  her  words  that  glow, 
Has  join'd  a  halo  round  her  name  to  throw ! 
Stripp'd  of  her  mask,  how  soon  her  glories  die  ! 
How  fade  her  charms  in  Truth's  unbias'd  eye  t 


140  THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION. 

How  hideous  then — how  vile  her  features  seem ! 
Her  course,  how  drear  ! — her  glory,  what  a  dream  ! 
She,  when  as  yet  the  substance  of  a  world 
Chaotic  lay,  in  starless  midnight  hurPd ; 
When  perfect  spirits  round  th'  eternal  throne, 
Tun'd  their  soft  harps,  rebellion  yet  unknown ; 
When  white-robed  Virtue,  and  Devotion,  there, 
Breathed  sweet  contentment  on  the  hallow'd  air — 
She  sow'd  dissension  in  celestial  soil, 
And  marr'd  its  quiet  with  infernal  broil. 
She  first  incited  seraphs  to  rebel, 
And  changed  rapt  angels  into  fiends  of  Hell ; 
She  from  the  skies  erased  the  morning  star  ; 
Bright  Lucifer,  how  hast  thou  fallen  far ! 
She  on  mankind  entaiPd  the  curse  of  death, 
And  Eden's  verdure  wither'd  in  her  breath ; 
Polluting  breath,  that  gave  Corruption  birth, 
And  sent  fair  Virtue  weeping  from  the  earth. 
But  cease  we  here,  nor  tamely  thus  repeat 
What,  oft  rehearsed,  is  barren  and  effete ; 
Ambition's  earlier  fruits,  which  long  of  old 
The  sacred  page  to  human  wonder  told  ; 
Which  he,  unequall'd  bard  of  seraph  tongue, 
Enraptur'd  Milton  hath  divinely  sung, 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION.  141 

Who  caught,  like  old  Prometheus,  heavenly  fire, 
And  in  th'  Empyrean  strung  his  golden  lyre. 

Be  not  mine  aim,  with  unfledg'd  wing,  to  soar 
To  themes  which  angels  tremble  to  explore  ; 
Enough  for  me  her  later  deeds  to  show  ; 
Enough  her  Progress  through  this  world  below  ! 

On  Shinar's  plain  see  first  a  tower  arise, 
That  lifts  its  summit  to  the  frowning  skies  ! 
This,  the  vain  builders  toil  from  year  to  year. 
As  a  memorial  of  their  fame  to  rear ; 
FilPd  by  Ambition  with  her  restless  flame, 
And  panting  ardent  for  enduring  fame, 
Their  hope  profane  would  scale  the  throne  of  God  : 
Their  bold  presumption  dares  defy  his  rod  ! 
But  hark  !  confusion  murmurs  through  the  plain, 
And  man  hath  learn'd  that  war  with  Heaven  is  vain. 

Far  in  the  East,  Assyria's  strength  and  pride, 
A  city  stood,  her  ramparts  strong  and  wide  ; 
Hers  were  rich  spoils  from  barbarous  nations  torn, 
And  the  rich  ore  from  golden  Ophir  borne  ; 
Tall  were  her  temples,  and  her  gardens  fair 
That  bloom'd  on  high,  with  odours  fill'd  the  air : 
Then  did  rich  Plenty  all  her  stores  display, 
And  there  did  Earth  her  trembling  homage  pay. 


142  THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION. 

Long  had  her  splendours  fill'd  the  world  with  awe, 
And  farthest  monarchs  envied  as  they  saw  ; 
Long  had  rich  conquest  added  pride  to  pride, 
And  stretch'd  her  empire  o'er  the  nations  wide  ; 
And  long  in  glory's  solitude,  her  throne 
Had  stood  most  high,  unrivall'd  and  alone. 

But  now  innumerous  hosts,  from  Persia's  land, 
Surround  her  bulwarks — a  victorious  band, 
By  Cyrus  led,  from  Sardis'  rocky  hold, 
Where  glides  Pactolus  over  sands  of  gold. 
He,  though  possessor  of  the  boundless  store 
Of  Croesus'  riches,  sateless  sought  for  more, 
But  dearer  panting  for  the  wreath  of  fame, 
To  thy  green  borders,  old  Euphrates,  came ! 

Sad  was  that  advent  to  Assyria's  pride ; 
Her  grandeur  perish'd,  and  her  glory  died ; 
The  Persian  lord  usurp'd  her  ruin'd  throne, 
For  he  had  conquer'd — but  not  he  alone  ! 
An  arm  unseen,  his  arm  victorious  made  : 
A  God,  to  whom  his  vows  were  never  paid, 
Laid  bare  Euphrates'  bed,  and  oped  a  path 
For  him,  the  unconscious  minister  of  wrath. 

How  burn'd  Ambition  in  thy  sons,  oh  Greece ! 
Untamed  in  warfare,  conquerless  in  peace  ; 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION.  143 

What  time,  where  bright  Alpheus  rolls  its  waves, 
In  sacred  Pisa  met  athletic  braves, 
Long  train'd  to  wield  the  ponderous  gauntlet  well, 
Or  in  the  airy  foot-race  to  excel ! 
There  from  thy  tribes  and  distant  islands  came, 
Each  bold  aspirant  for  the  wreath  of  fame  ; 
There  laurelPd  heroes,  statesmen,  princes,  sought 
The  olive  crown — small  prize,  but  dearly  bought ; 
There  kings  resorted  with  their  vassal  train, 
And  throng'd  the  lists,  the  rich  reward  to  gain  ; 
There,  too,  rapt  bards  their  pilgrim  visits  paid, 
And  sung  the  games  by  old  Alcides  made. 
Not  theirs  the  fault,  not  their's  the  paltry  pride, 
That  such  free  contest  to  the  poor  denied ; 
But  all  they  welcomed,  in  whose  ardent  breast 

Burn'd  the  high  hope,  and  passion  unrepress'd. 
Now,  while  all  breasts  with  warm  Ambition  glow, 

They  wield  the  gauntlet,  or  the  discus  throw ; 

Now,  wrestling  strong,  each  manly  muscle  strain, 

Or  guide  the  chariot  o'er  the  sounding  plain ; 

Now,  too,  while  thousands  lend  the  listening  ear, 

Athletic  minds  in  sager  strife  appear ; 

The  wise  historian  all  his  lore  displays ; 

The  minstrel  sings  the  joyous  victor's  praise 


144  THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION. 

And  Rhetoric  sweet,  from  honey'd  lips  that  flows, 
Upon  the  throng  its  magic  influence  throws. 

There  too,  perchance,  the  Theban  eagle  sings, 
Unrivall'd  Pindar,  bard  of  loftiest  wings, 
Who  ever  strove  to  swell  the  victor's  heart 
With  some  rich  tribute  of  his  tuneful  art  ; 
There,  too,  in  earliest  days,  the  ancient  sage, 
The  sire  of  History,  brought  his  storied  page, 
Which,  smit  with  love,  th'  admiring  nations  heard, 
And  thankful  honours  on  each  tome  conferr'd. 

Ambition,  if  of  deeds  that  thou  hast  done, 
There  be  a  noble  or  a  worthy  one ; 
If  the  dark  history  that  describes  thy  path, 
One  page  unsoil'd,  one  tale  of  beauty  hath ; 
If  one  bright  spot  in  all  thy  dark  career 
May  e'er  be  found,  that  oasis  is  here  ! 
For  them  'twas  highest  virtue,  to  succeed 
At  these  deep  sports,  and  win  the  conqueror's  meed. 
Their  country's  glory  was  their  noblest  aim ; 
Their  greatest  ill,  that  well-loved  country's  shame ; 
For,  unillumed  with  rays  that  on  us  shine 
With  holy  light  of  righteousness  divine, 
Their  best  devotions  were  to  sculptured  stone ; 
Their  holiest  altar  to  the  God  unknown. 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION.  145 

Lo,  Macedonia !  on  the  Theban  plain 
Thy  youthful  monarch  hath  array'd  his  train ; 
With  dauntless  ardour,  and  with  vigour  bold, 
He  wreaks  his  vengeance  on  the  strengthen'd  hold ; 
Cadmeia  falls,  and  smouldering  ruins  tell 
How  great  a  prize  to  boyish  prowess  fell. 
Soon  gorgeous  Persia,  with  her  rich  array, 
And  sea-built  Tyre,  become  the  stripling's  prey ; 
Philistian  Gaza  to  his  valour  yields, 
And  farthest  Ind  resigns  her  spicy  fields. 
Thus  he,  victorious  o'er  the  peopled  earth, 
Like  some  fell  comet,  spread  dismay  and  dearth  ; 
Thus,  too,  the  Roman  in  his  wild  career, 
Insatiate  Caesar,  fill'd  the  world  with  fear  ; 
And  where  he  came,  whole  empires  blench'd  away, 
Like  gilded  clouds  before  the  blaze  of  day. 

On  that  sad  field  where  Pompey's  standard  fell, 
Let  Caesar's  tears  Ambition's  triumphs  tell ; 
Or  lone  and  lost,  Earth's  greenest  vale  along, 
His  wilder'd  rival,  shall  in  doleful  song 
To  Fancy's  ear,  lament  for  Fortune's  scale, 
And  tell  the  groves  the  same  eternal  tale, 
How  he  that  rules  o'er  half  the  world  to-day, 
Shall  seek  a  hut,  escaped  the  morrow's  fray  ; 

H 


146  THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION. 

In  Tempe's  glades,  no  soft  seclusion  find 

To  heal  the  anguish  of  a  rankling  mind ; 

But  mute,  or  muttering,  from  its  haunted  air, 

Fly  o'er  the  seas,  to  find  a  murderer  there  ; 

His  friends — one  slave  ; — his  pile — a  shattered  prore, 

Great  Pompey,  dust :  and  Rome — old  Rome  no  more. 

And  Rome  itself — so  strong,  so  nobly  plann'd, 
Must  bow — as  builded — by  Ambition's  hand  ; 
When  o'er  her  towers,  that  totter  at  his  nod, 
The  Hun  avenger  rears  the  scourge  of  God, 
And  gives  to  Pagod  Priests,  a  puny  prey, 
The  Iron  realm  of  golden  Lore  and  Lay. 
Ambition  then,  in  Peter's  fabled  chair, 
Outpours  her  vials  on  the  darken'd  air, 
Till  close  the  mists  of  ignorance  around, 
And  midnight  broodeth  to  the  utmost  bound. 

Then,  save  perchance,  where  flared  some  cloister'd  ray, 
The  light  of  Science  fled  from  Earth  away  : 
Then  Superstition  on  the  souls  of  men, 
Made  fast  her  chains  and  held  her  sway  again  : 
Then  too  fair  Freedom  slumber'd  in  the  grave, 
And  o'er  her  memory  roll'd  Oblivion's  wave. 

Then  too  the  Hermit  to  the  slavish  world, 
The  pseudo-banner  of  the  Cross  unfurl'd  ; 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION.  147 

But  say,  did  true  desire  their  God  to  aid, 

Lead  Europe's  armies  to  the  vain  crusade ! 

Burn'd  then  so  pure,  what  since  has  grown  so  dim, 

The  love  of  God,  and  holy  zeal  for  him  ! 

Answer,  fair  Albion,  did  just  cause  enrol, 

In  their  fierce  ranks  thy  chief  of  Lion  soul ! 

Answer,  ye  blood-dyed  fields  of  groaning  Earth, 

Was  such  wild  project  of  celestial  birth ! 

Or  ye  bleach'd  bones  in  lands  remote,  that  lie, 

Did  righteous  anger  lead  you  forth  to  die  ! 

Or  did  Ambition  draw  the  futile  blade, 

Still  fiend  at  heart,  though  angel-like  array'd, 

That  o'er  the  Earth  in  gory  chariot  borne, 

Drank  deep  delight  in  making  thousands  mourn ! 

Lo,  from  the  regions  of  the  dreary  North, 
The  Swedish  warrior  bursts  in  terror  forth  ; 
But,  as  the  bark  that  crowds  the  swelling  sail, 
With  rudder  lost,  is  shipwreck'd  by  the  gale, 
So  he,  impelPd  by  wild  Ambition's  force, 
Without  discretion  to  direct  his  course, 
Unpitied  falls,  his  glories  unenjoy'd, 
His  world  ungain'd — and  yet  his  soul  destroy'd. 

Next,  verdant  Gallia,  on  thy  vine-clad  hills, 
Is  drawn  the  falchion  that  dismays  and  kills  : 


148  THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION. 

There  floats  the  banner  of  devouring  war, 
There  mad  Ambition  mounts  her  blood-stain'd  car. 
Weep,  ill-starr'd  Europe!  ere  her  sword  be  sheath'd 
In  blood-dyed  laurels  shall  her  brow  be  wreath'd, 
And  all  thy  thrones  confess  the  power  of  one, 
By  her  inspired — the  stripling  Corsican  ! 
Aye,  and  sad  Afric  shall  his  prowess  feel, 
When  towering  Egypt  at  his  feet  shall  kneel. 
UnequalPd  warrior  of  unequalPd  fame  : 
Unequall'd  murderer  of  unequalPd  shame  ! 
Him  the  strong  passion  that  his  actions  sway'd 
To  heights  untrodden,  by  frail  man  convey'd : 
To  airy  heights,  where  silent  glaciers  froze, 
Where,  beak'd  for  prey,  GauPs  empire-eagles  rose, 
When  that  dark  soul,  that  triumph'd  in  the  storm, 
Rear'd  o'er  the  world,  his  world-subduing  form. 

But  oh,  Ambition,  faithless  is  thy  smile, 
Awhile  that  flatters,  that  deceives  awhile  ; 
That  to  the  skies  exalts  its  victim  quite, 
To  plunge  him  deeper  in  oblivion's  night ! 
Thus,  led  by  thee,  o'er  paths  before  untrod, 
Thy  dauntless  favourite  is  but  just  a  God  ; 
But  see,  where  roars  the  fray  of  Waterloo, 
Droops  the  bold  eagle  that  unequall'd  flew  : 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    AMBITION.  149 

Again  behold  him,  caged  by  Ocean's  bound, 
Whet  his  starv'd  beak,  and  view  the  waves  around  ; 
And  trail  a  wing,  to  that  lone  mountain  chain'd 
Whose  soaring  flight  the  world  had  scarce  contain'd. 

Ambition,  while  that  Island  of  the  sea, 
Rears  her  lone  front,  mankind  shall  think  of  thee ; 
And  the  hoarse  waves  that  lash  its  rugged  shore, 
Shall  sound  a  warning  in  their  ceaseless  roar  ! 


THE  BLUES. 


rA\Xori  fxlu  re  y6o)  <ppcva  rip-nopai 
Aiiprjpos  61  Kdpog  xpvepoio  yooio- 

Odyss.  IV.  102. 


I; 


Oh,  blest  resource  when  other  sources  fail, 
Neglected  quill, — I  welcome  thee  again. 

How  pleasant  'tis  a  good  old  friend  to  hail 
After  long  absence.     Come  my  inky  pen, 

Now  for  a  ramble,  or  a  distant  sail 

Where  chance  may  lead  us — far  from  haunts  of  men. 


150  THE    BLUES. 

Full  oft  before  we've  pilgrims  been  together, 

And  nought  but  Death  shall  part  us,  faithful  Feather  ! 

II. 

Now  I  am  ready  ;  for  I  ask  no  Muse 
To  hover  o'er  me  and  suggest  my  lay  : 

My  theme  itself  inspires  me.     Blessed  Blues  ! 
Ye  are  about  me  or  by  night  or  day  ; 

You've  taught  me  sonnets  to  my  sweetheart's  shoes, 
And  help'd  me  many  a  thing  in  rhyme  to  say  ; 

And  now  ye  are  my  subject — I've  no  doubt 

But  when  I  sing  of  you — you'll  help  me  out. 

III. 

And  now  'tis  midnight — Hark  !  the  distant  bell 
Of  some  old  steeple  chimes  the  dismal  hour 

When  goblins  grim,  and  spectres,  'scape  from  Hell, 
To  range  the  shrouded  landscape,  or  to  scour 

The  blasted  heath  benighted.     Legends  tell 
That  oft  they  revel  near  some  ruin'd  tower, 

While  the  gaunt  moon,  careering  through  the  sky, 

Smiles  on  foul  scenes  unfit  for  mortal  eye. 


THE    BLUES.  151 


IV. 


But  if  they're  revelling  any  where  to-night, 

They  might  as  well  go  back  from  whence  they  came, 

For  the  wind  howls  full  sad  enough  to  fright 

Ev'n  fiends  themselves  from  their  infernal  game  ; 

And  the  rain  patters  down  with  fearful  might, 

Oft  dashing  'gainst  my  window.     Who's  to  blame, 

If  on  a  night  like  this  the  ghosts  should  see 

Fit  to  keep  home — and  leave  the  world  to  me  ? 


But  yet  there's  music  in  the  howling  blast, 

That  brings  the  distant  chiming  from  the  fane ; 

There's  music  in  the  rain  drops,  falling  fast 
And  dashing  often  'gainst  the  broken  pane  ; 

There's  music  in  the  thunder,  that  at  last 

Breaks  in  hoarse  muttering  upon  night's  dull  reign  ; 

And  there  is  music  to  my  lonely  ear 

Ev'n  in  the  cricket's  chirpings  that  I  hear. 

VI. 

For  oh,  my  soul  hath  sympathy  with  sounds 
So  desolate  as  these.     No  song  of  mirth, 


& 


0 

152  THE    BLUES. 

Or  wassail  shout,  that  oft  re-echoing  bounds 

From  the  arch'd  banquet-hall,  to  greet  the  birth 

Of  long-expected  heir,  or  that  resounds 
To  hail  the  triumph  of  some  lord  of  earth, 

Could  ever  please  my  ear.     I  love  the  strain 

That  tells  me  life  how  fleeting — earth  how  vain. 

VII. 

But  where's  the  Blues  ?     I  was  to  write  of  them. 

The  Blues  ?     Why  only  once  re-read  my  lay, 
And  you're,  indeed,  a  man  of  stubborn  phlegm 

If  you  don't  find  them  in  each  word  I  say. 
But  here  a  current,  which  'tis  hard  to  stem, 

Sets  in  and  carries  me  another  way. 
I  do  not  like  an  episode,  but  then 
I'm  not  to  blame,  I've  got  a  truant  pen. 

VIII. 

Didst  ever  listen  to  a  simple  thing  % 

They  call  ^olus'  harp  ?     The  toy  is  made 

In  many  forms — but  draw  a  silken  string 

Tight  in  your  casement — (in  the  breezy  shade, 

These  airy  harps  are  sweetest,) — soon  'twill  sing, 
And  soft  will  swell  its  voice  ;  and  then  'twill  fade. 


THE    BLUES.  153 

No  human  fingers  sweep  its  magic  strings, 
But  unseen  spirits  fan  it  with  their  wings. 

IX. 

And  now  the  storm  is  hush'd,  and  the  still  air 
Would  love  to  listen  to  such  strains  as  those  ; 

I'll  place  it  in  my  window  ;  it  shall  there 

Lift  its  calm  voice  where  late  the  tempest  rose, 

For  it  is  beautiful  that  breezes  fair 

Should  sing  a  requiem  to  the  blast's  repose. 

And  there  is  something  charming  in  the  time, 

This  stilly  hour  just  suits  so  drear  a  chime  ! 


Hark  !  now  it  sings.     'Tis  sweet,  oh  breezy  lyre  ! 

To  listen  to  thy  voice  when  sad  and  lone. 
'Tis  soothing  to  the  soul  (as  o'er  each  wire 

The  breezes  creep)  to  catch  thy  plaintive  tone. 
'Tis  good  to  cherish  what  thy  notes  inspire, 

'Tis  solacing  to  echo  back  thy  moan  ; 
And  it  is  pleasing  as  I  sigh  with  thee 
To  dream  I  have  thine  artless  sympathy. 


154  THE    BLUES. 

XL 

For  thou  art  Melancholy's  shell.     Thy  lay 
Is  her  inspiring ;  and  thy  dreary  plaint, 

Now  swelling  full,  now  dying  soft  away, 
Is  but  her  voice,  and  mild  it  is,  and  faint, 

And  mellow  as  the  colours  which  the  day 

Leaves  in  his  golden  pathway,  and  doth  paint 

On  the  blue  sky  at  evening ;  when  his  light, 

Just  nickering  in  the  West  bids  Earth  good  night. 

XII. 

So  come — so  pass  thy  murmurings.     I,  the  while 
Well-pleased,  commune  with  loneliness,  and  prove 

That  melancholy's  self  may  wear  a  smile, 
For  gloomy  are  the  pleasures  that  I  love  ; 

And  oft  I  wish  me  cast  on  desert  isle, 

Where  I  might  wander  like  the  trembling  dove 

And  find  no  rest — yet  happy  in  my  woe, 

To  feel  such  hardships  as  none  others  know. 

XIII. 

Ah  !  no — I  wish  not  thus,  save  when  1  feel 
That  there  are  none  on  earth  to  care  for  me. 


THE    BLUES.  155 

But  when  I  think  of  home — or  break  the  seal 

Of  some  far-travelPd  letter,  meant  to  be 
The  vicar  of  a  kiss — Ah  !  then  will  steal 

Such  sighs  as  witness  that  'tis  agony 
To  be  alone — to  live  where  none  are  near, 
To  share  a  sorrow,  or  to  dry  a  tear! 

XIV. 

Well — let  that  pass.     The  harp  that  prompts  these  lays, 
Played  by  the  wanton  breeze,  still  pensive  sings. 

Why  should  it  mourn  so  constant  1     Gloomy  days 
And  human  ills  touch  not  its  magic  strings. 

But  still  it  grieves  unchanging,  still  obeys 
Some  hidden  spirit's  magic  fingerings. 

And  still  its  syren  accents  lure  my  soul 

To  deeper  gloom,  and  hold  it  in  controul. 

XV. 

And  so  I'll  stop  it.     It  shall  sing  no  more. 

I  thought  that  it  might  soothe  me — but  I  fear 
That  I'm  not  sooth'd — I'm  sadder  than  before. 

And  though  the  minstrel  breeze  hath  charm'd  mine  ear, 
It  hath  but  probed  a  heart  already  sore, 

And  made  more  dreary  what  'twas  meant  to  cheer. 


156  THE    BLUES. 

Those  villain  sprites  have  dyed  me  deeper  blue, 
But  that  just  suits  my  subject — so  'twill  do. 


XVI. 

Now  why  do  I  sit  here  ?  I  ought  to  be 
Pressing  my  pillow  at  this  lonely  time  : 

But  even  then,  in  troubled  dreams  I'd  see 
All  that  while  waking  I  reduce  to  rhyme. 

The  mind  (as  schoolmen  say)  is  ever  free, 

So  sometimes  is  the  body.     Where's  the  crime, 

If  that's  the  case,  in  doing  as  I  choose  ? 

'Tis  just  this  time  of  night  that  suits  the  Blues. 

XVII. 

My  books  are  piled  before  me.     There  I  see 

Thy  much-loved  poems,  Cowper.     There,  too,  thine, 

Blithe  Thomson,  which  so  much  enamour'd  me 
When  I  a  schoolboy  read  them — every  line 

Breathing  a  grateful  fragrance  worthy  thee. 
There,  Milton,  is  thy  rapturous  song  divine, 

That  to  our  eyes  such  scenes  of  glory  brings, 

As  half  repay  us  for  the  Loss  it  sings. 


THE    BLUES.  157 

XVIII. 

There,  too,  is  thy  thin  volume,  lazy  Gray, 

That  tells  the  world  how  great  thou  might'st  have  been ! 
That  shows  three  lofty  lyrics,  and  a  lay 

The  like  of  which  the  world  hath  never  seen. 
And  there,  together  bound,  are  Pope  and  Gay, 

And  Collins  wisely  slipp'd  the  two  between. 
There,  mighty  Shakspeare,  are  thy  wondrous  plays ! 
Like  thy  dread  self — a  marvel  and  a  maze. 

XIX. 

There,  heap'd  together  in  one  classic  pile, 
Lie  the  rich  treasures  of  once-glorious  Rome. 

There,  too,  the  offerings  of  each  Grecian  isle, 
The  hymns  of  Pindar,  and  old  Homer's  tome, 

And  gay  Anacreon's  lays — 'neath  which  the  while 
Rest  certain  scraps  that  touch  me  nearer  home. 

Come  out,  my  scribblings — Well !  what  have  we  here  ? 

The  World — a  poem,  and  an  Ode  to  Fear. 

XX. 

Ah,  yes,  I  know  them  well.     The  first  I  wrote 
When  sick  of  earth,  and  most  content  to  die. 


158  THE    BLUES. 

The  next  I  but  began.     Why  is't  we  dote 
On  such  poor  things,  and  with  a  parent's  eye 

Regard  their  beauties — and  will  scarcely  note 
Their  faults  though  glaring  ?     I  cannot  tell  why  ; 

But  this  I  know — that  in  some  way  or  other 

Men  love  their  children  better  than  a  brother. 

XXI. 

But  how  I  wander !     Were  the  Blues  my  theme  ? 

They  were  when  I  begun — but  ah,  I  stray. 
E'en  as  one  traveling  in  a  troubled  dream 

Now  treads  a  thorny,  now  a  flowery  way, 
Now  climbs  a  highland,  now  glides  down  the  stream, 

Now  gropes  in  darkness,  and  now  sees  the  day, 
Lo  !  I — (no  wonder  at  this  time  of  night) 
In  waking  dreams  scarce  know  which  way  is  right. 

XXII. 

Well !  'tis  a  privilege  to  stray.     One  feels 
A  rankling  fester  when  he's  kept  at  home, 

But  freed — at  once  the  loathsome  plague-spot  heals. 
Oh,  'tis  a  blessed  privilege  to  roam  ; 

So  thinks  the  truant  schoolboy  when  he  peals 
His  full-mouthed  hurrah.     In  the  starry  dome 


THE    BLUES.  159 

Nature  hath  taught  us  that  'tis  blest  to  stray, 
For  there  the  planets  hold  their  wandering  way. 


XXIII. 

I'll  e'en  look  out  and  view  them.     Now  the  noon 
Of  night  is  pass'd.     From  out  yon  Eastern  cloud, 

Last  remnant  of  the  storm,  the  full  orb'd  moon 
Is  breaking  like  a  beauty  from  her  shroud ; 

And  now  she  danceth  to  some  sphery  tune, 
Upon  the  misty  carpet  'neath  her  bow'd, 

How  sweet  she  smiles  as  bright  she  climbs  the  air  ! 

Who  knows  but  spirits  blest  inhabit  there  ? 

XXIV. 

Yet  there's  a  mockery  in  thy  smile,  fair  light, 
That  seems  to  laugh  at  all  thou  see'st  below. 

And  when  I  gaze  on  thee  so  pure  and  bright, 
And  smiling  all  so  calm — when  I,  with  wo 

And  cares  distress'd,  am  grieving,  then  thy  sight 
Makes  my  o'erburden'd  heart  to  overflow. 

How  canst  thou  smile,  cold  moon,  when  thou  dost  see 

From  thy  safe  distance  all  Earth's  misery ! 


160  THE    BLUES. 

XXV. 

E'en  now  ten  thousand  languish.     'Neath  thine  eye 
Ten  thousand  groan,  and  on  their  couches  turn 

Their  restless  limbs.     Alas  !  how  many  a  sigh 
From  those  who  famish  and  from  those  who  burn, 

And  from  the  millions  who  in  cities  lie 

Gnaw'd  on  by  pestilence,  thine  ear  doth  spurn. 

But  still  thou  shinest  on,  and  keep'st  thy  way, 

Dazzling  the  stars  :  till  quench'd  thyself  by  day. 

XXVI. 

And  day  begins  to  quench  thee  even  now  ; 

For  in  the  East  the  herald  star  appears. 
Gaily  he  trippeth  o'er  the  mountain's  brow 

While  morn  her  rosy  face  all  blushing  rears. 
Thus  cheerful  comes  bright  Phosphor — yet  I  trow 

By  all  not  welcomed.     Some  he  finds  in  tears, 
And  dreading  his  approaching — 'tis  to  some 
The  bitterness  of  death  to  see  him  come. 

XXVII. 

But  thee — who  from  thy  couch  at  midnight  rose, 
To  cheat  the  sullen  hours  with  rhymes  like  these, 


THE    BLUES.  161 

He  finds  still  waking — reckless  of  repose, 

Save  that  which  Earth  shall  give  thee,  'neath  the  trees 
That  wave  above  a  spot  thy  memory  knows ; 

Where  soon  thy  head  must  rest,  and  where  the  breeze 
Sighs  through  the  branches  that  above  it  twine, 
And  wails  the  only  dirge  that  ever  shall  be  thine. 
April,  1836. 


ELEGY. 

WRITTEN   ON   LEAVING  THE   UNIVERSITY. 

Imitated,  in  part,  from  the  Latin  of  Milton,  Ad  Patrem,  and  addressed 
to  my  Father. 


My  Father,  if  to  thee,  the  Spring  I  owe 
Of  Life  itself,  since  Heaven  hath  will'd  it  so, 
Now  more  I  owe  thee,  than  a  mortal  birth, 
In  Faith  and  Love,  the  only  life  on  Earth  ! 
For  more  than  titles  of  the  worldly  great, 
Learning  makes  noble  with  the  best  estate, 


162  ELEGY. 

And  decks  the  son,  while  yet  the  sire  doth  live, 
With  brighter  stars  than  heritage  can  give ; 
Oh  happy  lot  so  rich  an  heir  to  be, 
And  more  than  wealth,  in  still  beholding  thee. 

And  now  with  joy  Urbana's  walls  I  spurn, 
And,  in  the  world,  begin  at  length  to  learn. 
No  more  a  boy,  no  more  a  tutor's  care, 
Nor  yet  a  cloister'd  academic  there, 
No  more  shall  Latin  and  a  flickering  light, 
And  dread  tomorrow,  rob  me  of  the  night ; 
Nor  yet  that  morrow,  in  the  chapel  dim, 
Where  ill-play'd  stops  outroar  the  students'  hymn, 
Mid  wrangling  dunces,  make  me  sit  to  bear 
A  levelling  vile,  and  odious  compare  ; 
Bored  with  the  squabbles  of  a  mimic  state, 
And  vext  with  words  and  wit  of  little  weight. 

Fear  not,  I  leave  the  College  for  the  town, 
Or  drop  the  scholar  with  my  threadbare  gown, 
For  worse  than  e'en  the  farces  of  the  Hall, 
I  count  full  rout,  and  bright  levee  or  ball ; 
And  other — better — on  the  opening  stage, 
Are  plans  and  pleasures  that  my  hopes  engage. 
I  only  mean  the  sickness  that  I  feel, 
When  o'er  the  Past  my  sober  memories  steal ; 


ELEGY.  163 

Convinc'd  that  College,  in  this  land  of  ours, 

Means  only  mortar,  brick,  and  flimsy  towers, 

Where  fools  waste  time,  and  hold  their  betters  back 

To  plod  with  asses  an  eternal  track  ; 

And  vex  their  masters — if  they  chance  to  be 

Such  as  1  reverence  for  their  gifts  to  me, 

With  coarse  backwoodsman  grunt,  and  stupid  gape, 

At  Pindar's  verse,  or  Plato's  prose  mayhap, 

Without  one  thought — or  in  that  thought  they  err, 

When  Pindar  sung — who  Plato's  heroes  were. 

Oh,  'tis  enough  to  make  a  mourner  laugh 
To  see  a  College  giving  sheep  to  calf, 
With  lies  on  parchment,  and  a  loud  degree, 
To  make  him  seem,  what  dunces  cannot  be ; 
To  see  the  schools  of  but  a  year  before, 
In  some  new  city,  aping  Oxford's  lore  ; 
To  see  each  clamouring  sect  new  charters  buy, 
To  tag  their  several  high-priests  with  a  lie, 
And  fix  the  doctor's  sage  degree  to  names 
That  suit  the  signboard's  glitter,  but  not  fame's ; 
Names  that  belong  to  heads  that  cannot  tell 
What  means  the  Latin,  which  they  scarce  can  spell, 
Whose  deck'd  diplomas,  from  the  kindly  schools, 
For  aught  they  know,  have  set  them  forth  as  fools, 


164  ELEGY. 

Or  class'd,  with  BufFon's  skill,  as  hybrid  beasts, 
Men,  taught  the  tailor's  craft,  who  use  the  priest's. 
Oh,  it  should  grieve  the  patriot,  thus  to  find 
Ev'n  schools  conspiring  to  degrade  the  mind, 
And  shower  the  names  of  scholars  wide  around, 
To  hide  the  leanness  of  a  mushroom  ground, 
Where  raree-show,  and  hey-dey  would  be  cried, 
If  that  odd  thing — a  scholar — could  be  spied  ! 

Not  worse  than  others  is  the  school  I  leave, 
But  thus  I've  heard  her  own  professors  grieve  ; 
Who  blush  to  wear  their  now  degraded  name, 
And  drudge  in  duties  common-schools  should  claim, 
For  poor  reward — and  insults  hard  to  bear, 
From  sons  of  bloated  tradesmen  lounging  there, 
Who  will  not  learn — and  cannot  if  they  would, 
Yet  keep  their  places,  while  their  fees  are  good, 
Till  four  long  years  grind  out  the  finish'd  class, 
And  fill  their  place  with  others,  ass  for* ass. 

Such  scenes  I  leave,  to  herd  with  such  no  more, 
But  that  I  so  have  herded,  to  deplore. 
'Tis  not  to  leave  the  studies  that  I  love, 
But  now  unfetter'd  in  their  fields  to  rove  ; 
'Tis  not  to  haunt  gay  life — or  lazy  rest, 
For  there  I'd  meet  once  more  what  I  detest ; 


ELEGY. 


165 


But  oh,  to  kindle  o'er  old  Pindar's  lines, 

And  leave  below  me  squares,  and  cubes,  and  sines, 

To  dally  sometimes  with  Anacreon's  flowers, 

Unstung  with  thorny  logarithmic  powers  ; 

To  court  old  Homer,  in  a  pleasant  mood, 

Where  tasks  in  Napier's  galley  can't  intrude ; 

To  woo  the  Sisters,  where  no  warning  beat 

Breaks  Dante's  dream,  and  calls  where  grovellers  meet : 

To  see  old  worlds,  old  visions  there  revive, 

Talk  in  old  words  and  in  old  dramas  live  ! 

Yet  friends  I  leave — the  noble  and  the  few  ; 
And  friends  who  lately  were  my  tutors  too ; 
And  some  who  hate  me. — Some  alas  !   are  dead, 
Who  came  with  me,  but  long  before  me  fled, 
The  wit,  the  dear  companion,  and  the  gay, 
Once  daily  friends — now  where,  oh  where  are  they ! 
Sweet  be  their  sleep,  and  o'er  their  quiet  urn, 
Bright  let  the  memory  of  their  virtues  burn  ;     ^ 
Glad  may  they  rise— nor  let  it  be  for  men, 
To  heave  their  dust  or  speak  their  faults  till  then  ! 

For  me — the  dreary  world  before  me  lies, 
And  heights  still  higher  than  high  mountains  rise, 
Hills  of  good  fame,  and  steeps  that  must  be  won* 
E'er  o'er  their  tops  descends  my  setting  Sun, 


166  ELEGY. 

Yet  not  the  Fame,  the  proud  Achievement's  self 
Spurs  deep  resolve,  and  scorn  of  price  and  pelf  ; 
The  heights  that  challenge  are  themselves  the  prize, 
Themselves  no  goal  to  eagle  wing  and  eyes, 
No  bound  to  soul — for  o'er  their  tallest  height, 
Stretch  glorious  worlds,  more  beautiful  and  bright, 
Realms  of  pure  ether — and  the  stars  above, 
Whose  sight  gives  wings,  and  lifts  to  worlds  of  love. 

So  not  from  Earth — from  realms  above  its  clay, 
I  hope  to  fly,  when  I  am  call'd  away, 
And  heavenward  still,  unstay'd  by  aught  below, 
I  pant  to  rise,  but  let  my  plumage  grow. 
Then,  oh  my  father,  on  the  beaten  road, 
If  loth  to  drudge,  I  spurn  the  earthling's  goad, 
Why  should'st  thou  frown,  in  paths  more  free  and  wild 
If  thine  aspires  to  be  the  Muse's  child, 
And  walk  where  fruits,  on  rosy  branches  hung, 
Feed  while  they  cheer,  and  fix  him  where  they  sprung ; 
Where  wisdom  dwelleth  in  seclusion  blest, 
And  courts  the  spirit  that  would  share  its  nest, 
Where  air  is  pure,  and  elevates,  and  fires, 
Inebriates  never — evermore  inspires, 
And  lifts  the  soul,  which  fetters  gall  and  bind, 
To  soar  with  them,  and  leave  the  world  behind. 


ELEGY.  167 

'Tis  not  for  all,  in  stole  and  holy  weed, 
To  wage  his  warfare  who  for  man  did  bleed  ; 
Not  mine  the  sword,  not  mine  the  cross  to  rear, 
But  mine  the  war-song,  and  the  notes  that  cheer. 

And  oft  to  me,  thy  voice  was  wont  to  tell 
Of  England's  Hastings,  and  how  Harold  fell. 
Not  then  alone,  the  Norman  to  the  field 
Came  with  red  crosslet  on  his  blade  and  shield, 
But  Roland's  glory,  by  the  minstrel  told, 
And  Ronsceval,  inspir'd  their  legions  bold. 
Then  the  long  battle,  dread,  and  direly  fraught, 
Raged  music-fired,  and  hymns  like  falchions  fought ; 
Till  drown'd  awhile — again  at  set  of  sun, 
Te  Deum  rose  for  crown  and  kingdom  won. 

Then  dream'st  thou,  Father,  battling  for  the  Lord, 
Faith  should  lack  song  to  whet  the  soldier's  sword  ! 
Those  songs  divine — that  not  like  old  psean, 
Delight  the  victor — soothe  the  vanquish'd  man, 
Yea,  heal  the  wounded,  and  revive  the  sore, 
Till  captives  smile,  and  own  them  foes  no  more  ? 

Oh,  if  I  give  me  to  be  faithful  so, 
May  not  thy  blessing  crown  me  as  I  go ! 
Give  but  thy  smile — I'll  face  the  forest  wild, 
And  trust  my  harp  to  make  the  journey  mild  ! 


168  ELEGY. 

So  once  the  minstrel  through  the  desert  went, 

Fearless  of  ill,  and  poor,  but  all  content ; 

His  harp  his  solace  and  his  shield  as  well, 

Yea,  his  strong  sword,  if  aught  of  ill  befel. 

Ev'n  prowling  beasts  confess'd  the  power  of  song  ; 

The  cubless  wolf  slunk  slow  and  tame  along ; 

The  robber  listen'd  in  his  cavern'd  hold, 

Wept  o'er  his  youth,  and  gave  the  poet  gold  ; 

And  birds  of  air  allured  anear,  'tis  said, 

Like  Cherith's  ravens,  brought  the  poet  bread ; 

He  on  his  way  still  sung,  and  boldly  pass'd, 

Heaven  his  high  theme,  and  his  reward  at  last. 

They  sin  who  trifle  with  that  holy  art, 
God's  gift  to  few — the  best  he  can  impart, 
Not  theirs  to  squander,  or  on  toys  exhaust, 
But  theirs  to  give  in  heartfelt  holocaust. 
Their  names  shall  rot,  who,  blest  with  such  a  prize, 
Have  all  forgot  they  held  it  from  the  skies ; 
While  he  alone,  who  knows  whence  all  is  given, 
And  heaven-inspir'd,  can  sing  the  lays  of  Heaven, 
Shall  gain  on  Earth,  for  rabble  shouts  of  fame, 
The  people's  wonder,  and  the  world's  acclaim, 
The  praise  of  prophet,  and  anointed  priest, 
And  good  men's  favour — an  eternal  feast; 


ELEGY.  109 

Nay  more,  for  there,  where  fancy-led  he  flew, 
Soon,  guest  no  more,  he  shall  inherit  too, 
And  still  a  poet,  perfect  unto  Him, 
He  shall  sing  on,  mid  fellow-cherubim, 
And  in  that  only  art,  exult  and  love, 
That  here  begun,  shall  never  end  above, 
That  still  sings  on,  when  altars  cease  to  blaze, 
And  bold  Apostles  preach  no  more,  but  praise. 

Remember'st  thou,  when  first,  with  boyish  heart, 
I  trode  the  threshold,  whence  I  now  depart, 
And  long  it  seem'd  the  course  I  must  pursue, 
So  short,  alas !  in  retrospective  view  ; 
Remember'st  thou,  in  Milton's  sounding  line, 
I  made  his  pleadings  to  his  father,  mine  ! 
In  Milton's  Latin  then  I  dared  to  tell 
My  own  heart's  choice — and  naught  could  speak  so  well ! 
Each  word,  each  thought,  each  feeling,  and  each  tone, 
It  seem'd  the  classic  mirror  of  my  own  ! 
Mine  rough  and  rude,  the  instinct  of  a  boy ; 
And  his  the  utterance  which  I  found  with  joy. 
Oh,  unlike  me,  in  ev'n  his  youth  a  sage, 
The  travell'd  pilgrim  of  each  ancient  page, 
I  yet,  like  him,  a  father's  love  had  found, 
For  my  strong  impulse,  too  severe  a  bound, 


170  ELEGY. 

And  yearn'd  to  break,  yet  dared  not  disobey, 
Till  thus  I  spoke  in  imitative  lay, 
And  trusted  then,  in  Milton's  might  divine, 
As  scarce  I  trust  me,  when  I  make  them  mine. 

Now,  of  all  foes,  that  thou  the  Muse  should'st  spurn, 
Is  strange  indeed — thyself  so  wont  to  burn. 
In  thy  dear  rhetoric,  oft  my  father,  song 
Wings  thy  pure  words,  and  makes  ev'n  strength  more 

strong ; 
And  Rhetoric's  self,  her  sister  undefil'd, 
Herself  a  Muse,  makes  thee  a  Muse's  child ; 
And  what  the  numbers — what  the  flimsy  art, 
If  thine  the  thing,  and  power  to  touch  the  heart ! 
Our  God  himself  would  serve  Him  of  the  twain, 
Of  sire  and  son  would  fair  proportion  gain, 
So  gave  thee  gifts,  and  humbler  gifts  to  me, 
Five  talents  mine,  the  more  than  ten  to  thee ! 

But  thou,  my  father,  when  thou  fain  would'st  scorn 
The  tender  Muse,  and  nam'st  her  sons  forlorn, 
Scorn'st  not,  I  deem  :  but  ev'n  from  earliest  year, 
For  what  he  is,  thou  didst  thy  pupil  rear. 
Oh,  not  thy  son  thou  bad'st  in  errour  stray, 
The  trodden  path,  and  wealth's  more  certain  way ; 


ELEGY.  171 

No  teaching  thine  to  make  mine  eyesight  ope, 

Greedy  of  gain,  and  traffic's  golden  hope  ; 

Nor,  stunn'd  with  brawl,  and  bored  with  patient  ears, 

To  noisy  codes,  didst  thou  subject  my  years, 

To  warp  the  soul,  to  plead  the  villain's  cause, 

And  curse  the  nation's  unregarded  laws. 

Oh,  kindlier  thou,  and  careful  of  my  mind, 

To  make  me  rich  in  Wisdom's  gold  refin'd, 

Me  from  the  city's  clamour,  far  retired, 

Thou  gav'st  to  go,  where  holy  shades  inspired, 

Student  of  Beauty,  in  the  poet  grove, 

A  blest  companion  of  the  Muse  to  rove. 

A  thousand  lesser  gifts  thou  gav'st  thy  son, 
Yet  most  I  bless  thee  for  this  glorious  one, 
The  love  of  Letters — Wisdom's  golden  store, 
And  the  high  prompting — could  I  ask  for  more ! 
When,  by  thy  care,  the  lore  of  Rome  was  mine, 
And  the  proud  tongue  of  Latium's  lordly  line, 
And  yet  the  language  which  Immortals  speak, 
And  God  might  love,  the  soul's  own  glorious  Greek, 
Thou  too  persuasive,  mad'st  my  language  dance, 
In  parlour  measures  to  the  notes  of  France, 
And  mimic  some  the  smooth  degenerate  South, 
In  words  half  music,  from  ltalia's  mouth, 


172  ELEGY. 

Nay  more — thou  gav'st  in  German  maze  to  plod, 
And  Judah's  letters,  mystical  as  God. 
Yes,  noble  father  !  all  that  Earth  contains, 
And  much  of  Heaven  that  o'er  this  earthly  reigns, 
Thou,  all-impulsive,  bad'st  me  search  and  know, 
And  ever  growing,  still  delight  to  grow. 
Me,  half-obeying,  loving  to  obey, 
Bless,  oh  my  father  !  ere  I  turn  away, 
And  choose  henceforth,  in  shades  where  sages  throng, 
Though  last  and  least,  to  wend  with  joy  along. 
There  from  the  world,  and  far  from  vulgar  eyes, 
Where  solemn  ivy  weaves  the  poet's  prize, 
I'll  sit  alone,  and  woo  divine  content, 
Spurn  envy's  leer,  and  scorn  the  sad  lament. 
The  serpent-brood,  in  noisier  walks  that  be, 
S  mil  hiss  no  more,  nor  spit  their  froth  at  me, 
As  lone  with  God,  I  lift  me  high  above 
The  tender  mercies  of  their  viper-love, 
And  in  the  sunshine,  where  the  good  may  go, 
Bear  my  high  breast,  too  lofty  for  their  blow. 

But  thou,  my  father,  since  no  deeds  can  pay 
For  all  thy  love — accept  my  grateful  lay ! 
Oh,  not  with  hope  a  recompense  to  give  : 
I  pledge  remembrance  while  this  heart  shall  live, 


ELEGY.  173 

And,  next  to  God — a  faithful  son  will  be 
In  deep  regard,  and  humble  love  to  thee ! 

And  ye,  all  artless  numbers  of  my  youth, 
Ye  boyish  lays,  my  simple  sports,  in  sooth, 
If  only  I  might  hope  that  ye  would  live, 
And  the  dark  burial  of  myself  survive, 
Not  doom'd,  like  me,  to  bow  ere  long  to  death, 
But  breathe  my  spirit,  when  I  yield  my  breath, 
Oh,  then  these  numbers  of  a  school-boy  lyre, 
Might  long  embalm  the  virtues  of  my  sire, 
The  bright  exemplar,  in  their  love  to  me, 
Of  future  sires,  and  sons  that  yet  shall  be. 

1838. 


174 


TO  A  LADY. 


THIS  NIGHT  I  COME  OF  AGE. 


Bear  with  me  !  I  must  talk  of  self  awhile, 
For  self  seems  dying  from  me :  and  my  life 
Hath  come  to  a  strange  passage  ;  a  ravine 
Cross'd  by  a  bridge  which  Art,  not  Nature,  throws, 
To  lead  us  from  our  childhood,  and  our  home. 

I  go  from  mine  own  country :  from  the  fields 
My  boyhood  loved  ;  the  circle  and  the  scenes 
That  first  were  pictured  on  my  filming  eye. 
I  seek  no  fairer,  but  I  needs  must  go, 
Push'd  by  the  sinewy  fist  of  deaf  old  Time, 
Into  that  untried  region,  where,  so  soon, 
I  shall  be  rank'd  and  titled  citizen. 
I  cannot  bear  it,  but  I  travel  on  ; 
The  rural  way  must  in  a  turnpike  end, 
A  dusty,  travelPd,  beaten  highway-road, 
Where  with  swift  wheels  some  whirl  the  hours  away, 
Choking  with  clouds  of  dust  the  passenger, 


TO    A    LADY.  175 

That  toils  afoot ;  and  some  go  limping  slow, 
Or  hand  in  hand  plod  down  the  thoroughfare, 
The  weariest,  ever  longest  on  the  journey. 
And  there  I  too  must  mingle  with  the  crowd, 
Swell  the  funereal  train,  and  knelPd  along, 
Unheeded  mid  the  moving  multitudes, 
To  that  far  country  be  a  pilgrim  bound, 
That  hath  no  ebbing  from  its  tided  shore. 

Manhood — it  hath  a  foreign  sound  to  me, 
Nor  would  I  thither  immigrate  so  soon ! 
I've  seen  strange  pictures  of  its  wretchedness  ; 
And  love  the  landscapes  of  my  home  too  well. 
Why  must  I  leave  my  Boyhood  !     'Tis  the  clime 
That  I  was  born  in  ;  and  its  language  too 
Is  dear  to  me,  unlike  all  other  tongues, 
Fresh  from  the  heart  in  accents  natural  I 
But  now  farewell  my  country  ! — When  again 
The  hour-bell  tolls,  I  am  exiled  for  aye ; 
And  men  shall  find  me  like  the  Hebrew  maid, 
Beside  the  rivers  of  that  Babylon, 
My  harp  upon  the  willows,  but  mine  eyes 
Weeping,  dear  Boyhood,  when  I  think  of  thee. 

My  mother !     Is  it  strange  I  think  of  thee, 
In  this  strong  hour  of  ailing  \     Blessed  one  ! 


176  TO    A    LADY. 

Ever  in  sorrow,  there  was  none  like  thee; 

In  sickness  thy  dear  voice  was  medicine  ; 

In  every  evil,  thou  wast  still  my  good  ; 

And  thou  wilt  pardon,  what  I'm  thinking,  mother, 

How  one-score  years  and  one,  ago,  this  night, 

Of  a  Whitsunday  even — bless  the  Lord, 

That  set  my  birth  for  that  high  festival ! 

Thou  gavest  me  to  life,  and  this  strange  world. 

And  I'm  alive  so  long,  to  praise  my  Maker, 

Not  only  for  such  life,  but  such  a  mother. 

And  I  do  praise  Him  :  and  I  praise  thee  too, 

Model  of  mothers  ;  though  I  own,  in  truth, 

Thy  teaching  always  foster'd  pride  in  me ; 

For  all  thy  pruning  of  thy  wayward  twig, 

Thy  maxims,  and  examples  of  high  merits, 

And  ev'n  thy  lessons  of  humility, 

Served  but  to  make  me  boastful  of  my  birth, 

That  I  was  son  to  such  a  very  angel. 

Mother,  forgive  me  !     But  thy  name — my  mother, 

Sounds  musical  with  many  harmonies  : 

Tells  me  sweet  stories  of  a  thousand  loves  ; 

Makes  me  remember  mine  abandon'd  Eden, 

Calls  up  old  tears,  old  smiles,  old  memories, 

And  lives  me  o'er  my  life-time,  at  its  mention  ; 


TO    A    LADY.  177 

So  that  I  love  to  syllable  my  mother. 
When  I  would  be  a  child  again,  and  feel 
The  very  real  of  the  words  she  taught  me, 
That  Heaven  itself  is  but  a  home  of  children. 

I've  lived  my  Seven  ages,  in  my  first, 
All  but  old  age,  and  second  childishness  ; 
And  in  them  all  I've  been  the  idle  truant, 
And  lounging  lover,  with  a  doleful  song. 
For  I  was  lover  from  my  cradle-clothes, 
And  always  had  a  sweetheart  and  a  passion  ! 
Dear  shapes,  and  dazzling — one  by  one,  they  warm'd  me, 
And  one  by  one,  went  dim  before  another  ; 
While  prosed  in  vain  the  brow-writ  moralist, 
And  with  a  pleasant  sophistry,  I  loved 
The  lovely  much,  and  then  the  lovelier  more  ! 
Dreams  of  past  slumbers  ! — in  my  fancy's  eye 
Their  portraits  are  all  breathing ;  and  'tis  sweet 
To  look  upon  the  glorious  gallery  ; 
Like  one  in  ancient  mansions,  that  is  told, 
Of  every  dame  upon  the  tap'stried  walls, 
She  was  a  famous  beauty — in  her  day. 

And  pleasant  legends  are  entwined  with  all, 
Of  unreturning  hours.     The  moon  is  out, 
And  mocks  me  with  the  memories  of  scenes 


178 


TO    A    LADY. 


Which  not  alone,  it  lighted ;  with  the  times 
Of  daylight  suit,  and  evening  serenade  ; 
The  stealthy  pace  along  the  glistening  grass ; 
The  notes  that  rose  upon  the  scented  air, 
In  one  fair  garden  overgrown  with  flowers ; 
And  then  the  peering  eyes  that  sparkled  down, 
Of  those  that  praised,  and  loved  me  !  Yonder  cloud 
Hath  tarnish'd  moonlight  not  so  shiveringly, 
As  Thought  will  oft  o'ershadow  Memory  ! 

Curtains  beseem  the  pictures  of  the  dead, 
And  ev'n  our  follies  need  a  sober  veil : 
Their  lights  and  shadows,  words  may  ne'er  engrave. 
Departed  Boyhood  !     It  bequeathes  me  yet, 
What  I  will  keep — so  my  good  angels  help  me  ! 
The  keepsakes,  and  the  good  estate  it  gather'd. 
No  more  a  boy — yet  will  I  glean  from  childhood, 
Some  fruits  that  grow  not  in  a  deeper  soil  ; 
A  childlike  conscience,  and  a  childlike  trust, 
And  childlike  eyes,  to  look  abroad  at  nature  ; 
And  childlike  love,  without  its  childish  folly, 
Will  glisten  like  a  diamond  from  the  mine, 
A  clear  first-water  jewel,  in  the  foil 
Of  sterner  years,  and  manhood  in  its  prime  ! 

And  1  would  keep  a  heart  that's  tender  yet 


TO    A    LADY.  179 

To  every  weeping  brother  ;  and  for  these 

I'll  be  contented,  if  ray  boyish  sports 

Must  go  with  boyhood.     Then  adieu  the  wood, 

The  swim,  the  dive,  the  frolics  of  the  water, 

The  sail-boat,  and  the  mimic  admiral, 

And  the  quick  battle  with  my  dearest  mate ! 

Henceforth  they'll  call  me  man,  and  I  must  lose 

Childhood,  that  vision  of  a  few  short  summers, 

That  comes  but  once  in  Immortality. 

Years  have  a  longer  Spring-time  in  proportion, 

A  nd  Spring  a  longer  May  ;  sweet  flowers  and  fruit 

Are  longer  in  the  bud  ;  the  yellow  grain 

Sprouts  not  so  speedy  into  harvest-time  ; 

And  all  the  short-lived  things  of  this  poor  Earth 

Have  long  beginnings,  to  their  little  lives. 

But  Man,  that  dureth  through  Eternity, 

And  lasteth  long  as  God,  outliveth  all 

That  he  beholdeth,  worlds,  and  suns,  and  spheres ! 

Man — the  eternal — hath  no  time  of  blossom  ; 

Well  nigh  his  birth,  is  his  maturity : 

His  speech,  his  spirit,  in  a  moment  ripen, 

And  his  mysterious  soul,  is  cheated  ever 

Of  Nature's  feast,  the  thrill  of  its  beginning, 

The  dew  of  youth,  as  from  the  morning's  womb 


180  TO    A    LADY, 

And  that  fond  glow  of  growing  life  and  fulness, 
That  makes  the  earliest  season  beautiful, 
As  when  of  old  the  stars  of  morning  sung. 

I  shall  live  longer  than  Methusalem  ; 
And  why  to  man's  undying,  deathless  years, 
Should  Nature  grudge  proportionable  youth ! 
Why  must  I  be  a  man!     My  spirit  still 
Is  blithe  with  boyhood,  when  'tis  not  remembering  ; 
It  grows  not  old  ;  I  feel  no  change  in  soul. 
I  am  a  boy  then  !     Only  yesterday 
I  rambled  all  along  that  glorious  river 
Whose  Indian  name  were  worthier  it  than  Hudson's ; 
And  'twas  in  green  Hoboken  that  I  wandered, 
And  as  I  thrided  through  the  alley  walks, 
With  hat  in  hand,  I  chased  the  butterfly, 
And  mock'd  the  cat-bird's  whistle.     Far  away, 
I  saw  a  knot  of  happy  school-boys  playing, 
Forgetting  they  had  stolen  holiday ; 
And  thoughtless  now  of  next-day's  reckoning, 
They  roll'd  their  marbles,  strangely  orthodox, 
Deeming  each  ill  sufficient  for  its  day. 
My  heart  was  with  them  :  ere  I  was  aware, 
I  was  a  truant  too — the  game  was  up, 
I  all  forgot  myself — my  hat  flew  off, 


TO  A  LADY.  181 

I  flung  my  jacket  to  the  mossy  stump  ; 

I  thought  to  hear  them  shouting  to  me  soon, 

Come,  boy,  make  one  at  taw.     'Twas  very  strange  ; 

Why  don't  they  hail  me  ?     I  must  ask  myself ; 

No  etiquette  in  boyhood  !     On  I  went 

With  quicken'd  step ;  my  lips  were  fixt  to  shout, 

Ho,  fellows !  I've  a  pocket-full  of  new  ones, 

I  speak  for  first ! when — ah,  the  happy  faces 

Clouded,  and  shrunk,  and  hush'd  the  merry  voices, 
Save  one  that  whisper'd — There's  a  man  a-coming  ! 

It  pang'd  me  into  consciousness.     'Tis  so  ! 
I  see  'tis  all  too  true.     It  must  be  true, 
At  length  I  am  a  man  :  I  argue  it 
From  the  full  sizes  of  my  earliest  playmates, 
And  in  myself  by  statelier  walking-strides, 
Hoarseness  of  voice,  and  beard  upon  my  lip. 
And  that's  the  way  I  know  it — only  so  ; 
And  so  by  demonstration,  proving  it, 
And  making  up  my  mind, — I  am  a  man, 
By  double-rule-of-three  ;  'tis  calculation, 
That  noble  method  of  old  Bobadil, 
Who  caught  a  Tartar,  by  his  algebra  ! 
'Tis  so  by  slate  and  pencil !     I  am  like 
An  eastern  princess  that  I  used  to  read  of, 


182  TO    A    LADY. 

Wrought  by  a  fairy's  magic  from  a  cat ! 

She  was  a  fine  fair  lady,  very  fair ; 

The  Arab  poets  made  their  songs  on  her  ; 

In  everything  she  was  a  very  princess, 

Save  only  when  a  mouse  stole  in  the  room, 

Nature  let  out  the  kitten.     Even  so, 

Methinks  I'm  made  a  man.     I  walk  with  men ; 

Read  ancient  poets  in  their  own  land's  words  ; 

And,  by  my  poor  diploma's  courtesy, 

Stand  with  the  learn'd,  wear  a  scholar's  name, 

And  have  no  more  a  master,  but  my  will. 

Aye — and  a  dearer  symptom  ! — even  Woman 

Will  condescend  to  waste  her  smiles  on  me  ; 

And — sweetest  argument  that  I'm  a  man, 

Thou  too,  fair  Lady,  dost  look  up  to  me, 

And  like  some  purer  being,  beckon  on 

The  man  thou  lovest,  to  a  nobler  daring, 

And  a  stern  battle  with  Life's  angry  ocean, 

Thyself  all  ready,  in  thy  womanhood, 

To  share  thy  part ;  with  me  to  venture  forth, 

And  like  a  swan  on  any  wave  of  fortune, 

Outride  the  whelming  billows  gracefully. 

So  then  I  am  a  man  !     But,  like  the  princess, 

I  wear  my  earlier  nature  deeply  still ! 


TO    A    LADY.  183 

A  man — save  only  mid  a  group  of  children  ; 
Save  only  when  the  ball  comes  bounding  by  me  ; 
Save  only  when  I  hear  some  shouting  boy : 
Save  only  when  in  woods  and  groves,  my  spirit 
Gives  one  free  leap,  and  snaps  the  flimsy  cords, 
That  brace  me  down  to  dignified  demeanour. 
Boyhood  hath  gone,  or  ever  I  was  'ware  : 
Gone  like  the  birds  that  have  sung  out  their  season, 
And  fly  away,  but  never  to  return  : 
Gone — like  the  memory  of  a  faery  vision  ; 
Gone — like  the  stars  that  have  burnt  out  in  heaven  : 
Like  flowers  that  open  once  a  hundred  years, 
And  have  just  folded  up  their  golden  petals : 
Like  maidenhood,  to  one  no  more  a  virgin  ; 
Like  all  that's  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  transient, 
And  yet,  in  its  surpassing  loveliness, 
And  quick  dispersion,  into  empty  nothing, 
Like  its  dear  self  alone,  like  Life,  like  Boyhood. 
Now,  on  the  traversed  scene,  I  leave  forever, 
Doth  Memory  cast  already  her  pale  look, 
And  through  the  mellow  light  of  by-gone  summers, 
Gaze,  like  the  bride,  that  leaveth  her  home  valley, 
And  like  the  Patriarch,  goes  she  knows  not  where. 
She,  with  faint-heart  upon  the  bounding  hill-top, 


184 


TO    A    LADY. 


Turns  her  fair  neck,  one  moment,  unbeheld, 
And  through  the  sun-set,  and  her  tearful  eye, 
Far,  as  her  father's  dwelling  strains  her  sight, 
To  bless  the  roof-tree,  and  the  lawn,  and  gardens, 
Where  romp  her  younger  sisters,  still  at  Home. 

I  have  just  waken'd  from  a  darling  dream, 
And  fain  would  sleep  once  more.     I  have  been  roving 
In  a  sweet  isle,  and  thither  would  return. 
I  have  just  come,  methinks,  from  Fairyland, 
And  yearn  to  see  Mab's  kingdom  once  again, 
And  roam  its  landscapes  with  her  !     Ah,  my  soul, 
Thy  holiday  is  over — play-time  gone, 
And  a  stern  Master  bids  thee  to  thy  task. 

How  shall  I  ever  go  through  this  rough  world  ! 
How  find  me  older  every  setting  sun  ; 
How  merge  my  boyish  heart  in  manliness  ; 
How  take  my  part  upon  the  tricksy  stage, 
And  wear  a  mask  to  seem  what  I  am  not  ! 
Ah  me — but  I  forgot ;  the  mimicry 
Will  not  be  long,  ere  all  that  I  had  feign'd, 
Will  be  so  real,  that  my  mask  will  fall, 
And  Age  act  Self,  uncostumed  for  the  play. 
Now  my  first  step  I  take,  adown  the  valley, 
But  ere  I  reach  the  foot,  my  pace  must  change  ; 


TO    A    LADY.  185 

In  hope  of  Immortality  !     The  hour, 

And  this  my  solemn  lamp  have  cheated  me  : 

An  ivory  cross,  beside  mine  escritoir, 

Has  caught  mine  eye,  and  shall  transmute  my  lay 

To  golden  numbers,  while  I  yet  am  Boy. 

My  song  shall  change  ;  for,  by  the  Crucified, 

I  go  from  strength  to  strength,  from  joy  to  joy  ; 

From  being  unto  being  !     I  will  snatch 

This  germ  of  comfort  from  departing  youth  ; 

And  when  the  pictured  primer's  thrown  aside, 

I'll  hoard  its  early  lessons  in  my  heart. 

I  shall  go  on  through  all  Eternity  ; 
,    Thank  God  !  I  only  am  an  embryo  still  ; 

The  small  beginning  of  a  glorious  soul ; 

An  atom  that  shall  fill  Immensity ; 

A  spirit,  waiting  for  an  angel's  wing ;  , 

And  Lady — I  will  tell  thee  even  more, 
vJTen  thousand  years  from  now  ;  if,  but  with  thee, 

I  too  reach  Heaven,  and  with  new  language  there, 

When  an  Eternity  of  bliss  has  gone, 

Bless  God,  for  new  Eternities  to  be  ! 

The  bell  hath  toll'd  !  my  birth-hour  is  upon  me  ! 

The  hour  that  made  me  child,  has  made  me  man, 

And  bids  me  put  all  childish  things  away. 


186  TO    A    LADY. 

And  I  toil  on,  as  man  has  ever  done, 

Treading  the  causeway,  smooth  with  endless  travel, 

Since  first  the  giants  of  old  Time  descended, 

And  Adam  leading  down  our  mother  Eve, 

In  ages  elder  than  Antiquity. 

This  voice  so  buoyant,  must  be  all  unstrung, 

Like  harps,  that  chord  by  chord  grow  musicless  ; 

These  hands  must  totter  on  a  smooth-topp'd  staff, 

That  late  could  whirl  the  ball-club  vigorously  : 

This  eye  grow  glassy,  that  can  sparkle  now, 

And  on  the  dear  Earth's  hues  look  doatingly  : 

And  these  brown  locks,  which  tender  hands  have  twined, 

In  loving  curls,  about  their  taper-fingers, 

Must  silver  soon,  and  bear  about  such  snows, 

As  freeze  away  all  touch  of  tenderness. 

And  then,  the  end  of  every  human  story 

Is  ever  this,  whatever  its  beginning, 

To  wear  the  robes  of  being — in  their  rags  ; 

To  bear,  like  the  old  Tuscan's  prisoners, 

A  corpse  still  with  us,  insupportable  ; 

And  then  to  sink  in  Earth,  like  dust  to  dust, 

And  hearse  forever  from  the  gaze  of  men, 

What  long  they  thought — now  dare  to  call — our  relics ! 


TO    A    LADY.  187 

Glory  to  Him  who  doth  subject  the  same, 
Keep  me  from  evil,  that  it  may  not  grieve  me  ! 
And  grant  me,  Lord,  with  this  the  Psalmist's  prayer, 
Remember  not  the  follies  of  my  youth, 
But  in  thy  mercy,  think  upon  me,  Lord  ! 

May,  1839. 


J.  P.  Wright,  Printer,  18  New  Street,  New  York. 


WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS.    SOUTHEY'S    WORKS. 

I. 

CHAPTERS   ON  CHURCHYARDS. 

II. 

SOLITARY   HOURS: 

THE    BIRTHDAY CHILDHOOD THE    WIDOW'S    TALE. 

III. 
ELLEN  FITZ-ARTHUR;  TALES  OF  THE  FACTORY, 

6cc.  &c. 


"  All  who  read  thy  writings  must  be  thy  friends  ;  and  all  lovers  of  nature  must 
feel,  as  they  peruse  them,  that  few  have  painted  its  beauties  with  a  more  delicata 
hand  of  truth."— [Blackwood's  Magazine.] 

"  We  do  not  remember  any  recent  author  whose  poetry  is  so  unmixedly  native ; 
and  this  English  complexion  constitutes  one  of  its  characteristic  charms.  No 
purer  models  of  our  genuine  home  feeling  and  language  could  be  placed  in  ft 
young  foreigner's  hands  than  Mrs.  Southey's  Works.  Moreover,  her  versifica- 
tion, especially  in  her  two  later  volumes,  is  not  only  generally  correct,  but,  in  se- 
veral instances,  of  very  great  beauty  and  perfection.  In  her  latest  poem,  "  The 
Birthday,'  she  has  attained  to  a  still  higher  excellence  of  style."— [Quarterly  Re- 
view, October  1340.] 


Wiley  <Sf  Putnam's  New  Publications. 
THE    ZINCALI; 

OR, 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  GYPSIES  OF  SPAIN. 

WITH    AN    ORIGINAL    COLLECTION    OF    THEIR    SONGS    AND    POETRY. 

BY    GEORGE    BORROW, 

Late  Agent  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society  in  Spain. 

In  2  vols.  l2mo. 

"  A  strange  book  this,  on  a  strange  subject,  written  by  a  strange  man — the  only 
living  man  competent  to  write  such  a  book. — The  volumes  contain  fine  materials 
for  romance,  and  some  even  for  history  ;  information  collected  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  and  exhibited  without  pretension  or  parade. 

"  Not  less  isolated  than  the  Jews— not  less  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  Globe,— 
without  knowledge,  without  reputation,  without  opulence,  the  Gypsies  have  main- 
tained themselves  for  centuries,  not  alone  in  the  wild  wastes  or  gloomy  solitudes  of 
the  Earth,  but  in  the  very  heart  of  civilization  and  of  society.  They  seem  so  to 
have  accommodated  themselves  to  the  necessities  of  their  position,  so  to  have 
avoided  becoming  obnoxious  to  opinion,  that  legislation  has  long  passed  by  them 
unconcerned.  Taking  no  part  in  the  drama  of  history,  exercising  no  influence  upon 
political  events,  the  annalist  has  not  honoured  them  with  a  share  of  his  regard — 
the  philologist  has  appeared  little  aware  that  their  supposed  jargon  presents  mat- 
ter for  much  reflection  as  to  their  origin,  their  migrations,  and  the  strange  vicissi- 
tudes through  which  they  have  passed  ;  nor  has  the  literary  student  ever  inquired 
what  fragments  of  popular  and  traditional  poetry  were  preserved  in  the  minds  and 
memories  of  the  Gypsies.  Mr.  Borrow  will  have  rendered  no  small  service,  if  the 
poetry,  the  proverbs,  the  anecdotes,  the  traits  of  character,  the  stories,  the  tradi- 
tions, which  he  has  collected  together,  should  lead  to  new  and  wider  inquiries  on 
any  of  these  matters.''— [Westminster  Review.] 


HINTS    TO    MOTHERS, 

FOR  THE  MANAGEMENT  OF  THEIR  HEALTH. 

BY  THOMAS  BULL,  M.  D., 

From  the  Third  London  Edition.     With  Additions. 
In  1  vol.  l2mo. 

"  This  little  volume  is  the  benevolent  contribution  of  good  sense  and  profession- 
al skill,  to  the  well  being  of  those  who  have  the  strongest  claims  on  our  sympa- 
thy. Unfortunately  a  vast  mass  of  erroneous  notions  exists  in  the  class  to  whom 
it  is  addressed  ;  to  which,  and  to  the  concealment  prompted  by  delicacy,  until  the 
time  for  medical  aid  is  gone  by,  we  are  indebted  for  very  much  of  the  danger  and 
suffering  incident  to  the  periods  they  are  destined  to  pass  through.  Dr.  Bull,  in 
the  true  spirit  of  a  physician  and  a  gentleman,  has  by  his  perspicuous  statements 
removed  the  first,  and  by  his  judicious  and  simple  directions,  anticipated  the  last  of 
those  fruitful  sources  of  evil.  There  is  no  mother  that  will  not  be  heartily  thank- 
ful that  this  book  ever  fell  into  her  hands:  and  no  husband  who  should  not  present 
it  to  his  wife.  We  cannot  urge  its  value  too  strongly  on  all  whom  it  concerns." — 
[Eclectic  Review.] 

"  We  never  read  any  popular  treatise,  or  directions  rather,  that  bear  more 
itrongly  the  stamp  of  scientific  and  experimental  knowledge.  The  mere  reading 
of  our  Author's  book  will  do  more  good  in  the  way  of  encouraging  the  fearful, 
and  banishing  nervous  anxiety,  than  a  whole  conclave  of  the  wisest  and  most  san- 
guine matrons  that  society  can  anywhere  bring  together." — [Monthly  Review.] 


Wiley  4*  Putnam's  New  Publications. 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS: 

HISTORICAL    AND    ROMANTIC. 
TRANSLATED,    WITH    NOTES,    BY    J.  G.  LOCKHART,    ESQ. 

A  New  Edition,  revised.  With  an  Introductory  Essay  on  the  Origin, 
Antiquity,  Character,  and  Influence  of  the  Ancient  Ballads  of  Spain : 
and  an  Analytical  Account,  with  Specimens,  of  the 

ROMANCE    OF    THE   CID. 

CONTENTS  : 


The  Lamentation  of  Don  Roderick. 

The  Penitence  of  Don  Roderick. 

The  March  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 

The  Complaint  of  the  Count  Saldana. 

The  Funeral  of  the  Couni  Saldana. 

The  Escape  of  Count  Fernan  Gonzales. 

The  Vengeance  of  Mudara. 

The  Wedding  of  the  Lady  Theresa. 

The  Excommunication  of  the  Cid. 

The  Murder  of  the  Master. 

The  Death  of  Queen  Blanche. 

The  Death  of  Don  Pedro. 

The  Avenging  Childe. 

The  Proclamation  of  King  Henry. 

The  Death  of  Alonzo  of  Aguilar. 

The  Departure  of  King  Sebastian. 

The  Bull  Fight  of  Gazul. 

The  Zegri's  Bride. 

The  Lamentation  for  Celin. 

The  Moor  Calaynos. 

The  Escape  of  Gayferos. 

The  Lady  Alda's  Dream. 

The  Admiral  Guarinos. 

The  Lady  of  the  Tree. 

Song  for  the  morning  of  the  day  of  St. 

John  the  Baptist. 
The  Song  of  the  Galley. 
The  Wandering  Knight's  Song. 


The  Captive  Knight  and  the  Blackbird* 
Bernardo  and  Alphonso. 
The  Maiden  Tribute. 
The  Seven  Heads. 
The  Young  Cid. 
Ximena  demands  Vengeance. 
The  Cid  and  the  five  Moorish  Kings. 
The  Cid's  Courtship. 
The  Cid's  Wedding. 
The  Cid  and  the  Leper. 
Bavieca. 

Garci  Perez  de  Varga. 
The  Pounder. 
The  Lord  of  Butrago. 
The  King  of  Arragon. 
The  Vow  of  Reduan. 
The  Flight  from  Granada. 
The  Bridai  of  Andalla. 
Zara's  Ear  Rings. 
Melisendra. 
Count  Arnaldos. 
Jujiana. 
Serenade. 
Valladohd, 
Dragut,  the  Corsair. 
Count  Alarcos  and  the  Infant  Soliza. 
The  Romance  of  the  Cid,  in  twelve 
parts. 


*'  Mr.  Lockhart  has  conjured  up  a  boundless  succession  of  scenes  and  actors,  who 
pass  before  our  view  in  a  Banquo  fflass  : — Bernardo,  the  hero  of  Roncevalles,  the 
personified  principle  of  the  immemorial  inveterate  resistance  of  Spaniards  against 
the  invading  Gaul — when  Christian  and  Moor  forgot  their  own  mutual  hatred  and 
death-struggle,  in  the  more  absorbing  common  abhorrence  of  France.  The  Cid — 
"  my  Cid,~he  who  was  born  in  a  good  hour  !  *  the  honor  of  Spain' — the  type  and 
epitome  of  her  national  character,  whose  horse,  sword,  beard,  every  part,  parcel, 
and  particular,  has  been  made  the  theme  of  a  poem.  Poor  Blanche  !  in  her  lone- 
ly prison,  sighing  like  Mary  Stuart  for  her  lost,  her  much  loved  France,  and  mur- 
dered by  her  wayward  husband,  Don  Pedro— then  comes  his  hour  of  retribution, 
the  fratricidal  wrestling  at  Montiel  ;  the  bloody  civil  wars,  the  Roses  and  Bos- 
worths  of  Spain — anon  the  scene  shifts  to  Granada,  to  the  fairy  Alhambra,  to  the 
banquet  of  beauty, — the  fountain,  jereed,  and  tournament.  Then  dark-coming 
calamities  cast  their  shadows  over  joy  and  pomp;  aery  of  woe  from  Alhama,  a 
hurrying  and  stirring  in  the  city,  a  saddling  of  steeds,  a  buckling  on  of  armour,  a 
riding  up  and  down  ; — the  contest,  the  defeat,  the  triumph  of  the  cross,  the  fall  of 
the  crescent,  never  to  rise  again.  Then  is  heard  the  '  last  sigh  of  the  Moor,'  as 
descending  from  the  hillock  ofPadul,  his  water-standing  eyes  looked  their  last 
farewell  at  those  red  towers,  his  paradise  on  earth,  now  lost  for  ever.  Then  mur- 
mur out  the  plaintive  ditties  of  fallen  Granada,  those  Morisco  waile  which  were  for- 
bidden to  be  sung,  lest  the  tear  that  they  called  up  should  be  brushed  away  by  the 
clenched  hand, which  passed  rapidly  over  the  brow  to  grasp  the  sword  of  revenge." 


Wiley  6f  Putnam's  New  Publications. 


LIBRARY  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 


TALES  OF  THE  KINGS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Stories  of  Camps  and  Battlefields,  Wars  and  Victories;  from  the  Old 
Historians.  By  Stephen  Percy.  With  numerous  Engravings  on 
Wood,  by  Butler.     75c. 


STORIES  ILLUSTRATIVE  OF  THE  INSTINCT 
OF  ANIMALS; 

Their  Character  and  Habits.     By  Thomas  Bingley.     Embellished 
with  Engravings  from  Drawings,  by  Landseer.    75c 


TALES  ABOUT  TRAVELLERS: 

Their  Perils,  Adventures,  and  Discoveries.     By  Thoms  Bingley* 
Embellished  with  Engravings.    75  c. 


IN  PRESS. 

WILLIAM  TELL,  THE  HERO  OF 
SWITZERLAND ; 

From  the  French  of  M.  Florian.    With  a  Memoir  of  the  Author.    To 
which  is  added, 

HOFER,  THE  TYROLESE. 
By  the  Author  of  Claudine,  &c,  &c.    Handsomely  bound  in  1  volume, 
and  illustrated  with  Engravings. 


THE  YOUNG  NATURALIST'S  RAMBLES 
THROUGH  MANY  LANDS ; 

Containing  an  Account  of  the  principal  Animals  and  Birds  of  both  the 
Old  and  New  Continents,  with  Anecdotes. 


DAWNINGS  OF  GENIUS ; 

OR, 

THE  EARLY  LIVES  OF  SOME  EMINENT  PERSONS 
OF  THE  LAST  CENTURY. 
By  Anne  Pratt,  Author  of  "  Flowers  and  their  Associations,"  &« 
Embellished  with  Engravings. 


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